


Particular

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Navy, Alternate Universe - Regency, Asexual Relationship, BUT EVENTUAL GAYS, M/M, Slow Build, also Poldark, and by slow i mean SLOWW hahah, persuasion and pride and prej references, saiLOR BOYS GUYS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than eight years ago, Emerson Kent, then a lovely, thoughtful, warm-hearted 19-year old, accepted a proposal of 'marriage' from the handsome young naval officer, Joseph Chandler. Now 27 and still unmarried, Kent re-encounters his former love when the man's godfather, the great Admiral Anderson, takes out a lease on Whitechapel Manor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [Edit: As a warning, I recently re-read this fic and found it has some uncomfortable ableism. Regency or not, that's not acceptable. I've become more educated since writing the story, but I remain sorry for it. For now, I leave the text as it is, but just a warning that there is 'period typical' self-hatred below.]
> 
> Summary and prologue heavily styled upon Jane Austen's 'Persuasion' (either from the wiki summary or from the novel itself.) Rest of fic based loosely on a mix of Persuasion/ Pride and Prejudice and Poldark. 
> 
> With great help from my Regency-master, Mipping, Horse-whisperer Graeliwil, Kendler-wrangler Steviekat, and from the amazing tv show "Supersizers Go... Regency" [if you ever need help with period food/clothing, there's a great resource.]

Captain Raymond Miles, of Whitechapel Manor in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any literature but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed.

‘MILES OF WHITECHAPEL HALL.

Captain Raymond Miles, born July 30, 1755, married, July 15, 1780, Judith, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of Gloucester, by which lady he has issue William, born August 9, 1803; James, born November 5, 1805; Charlotte, born November 10 1813. Also legal guardian of wards Emerson Kent, born February 26, 1788; Erica Kent, born February 26, 1788, entrusted, 1796.’

 

 


	2. Eligible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should update every couple of days <3

The dining table was uncharacteristically silent as they ate that evening. At the head of the table, the recently docked Captain Miles cut up his roast meat, intent on maintaining a veneer of normalcy. By his side, his wife held her glass and sipped, thoughtfully, before her usually constant smile appeared, a thin imitation of its usual beauty.

Kent’s fork, halfway to his mouth, quivered with his hand as it shook. The silence stretched for a full minute before his sister’s knee hitting his own under the table knocked him out of his shocked stupor. Kent snapped his mouth shut and put his still-loaded knife and fork down to rest on his plate. “You are to sell Whitechapel Manor?” he repeated, eyes searching to hold Miles’.

“Perhaps ‘rent’ would be a more appropriate word.” Miles cut a potato with slightly too much force, barely catching it before it spun off his plate. “There’s nothing for it. Too many debts, too little income.” Miles finally managed to spear the offending vegetable. “Too many mouths to feed,” he said, managing to make it sound an afterthought.

Kent looked back down at his plate, avoiding Miles’ eye now that he’d been granted it, picking his cutlery up so that his hands had something to hold, but not moving to pick at his food. His mind was tumultuous with thought, with self-blame. Too many mouths to feed.

He and Erica had been orphaned and adopted before the Miles’ had had children of their own, their parents dying in an unfortunate accident, and leaving the eight year old twins under the guardianship of their dearest friends, the Captain and his wife. It had been another seven years until the Miles’ first son, William, had been born at the turn of the century, and three years more for a second son, James. Then, two years ago, a surprise daughter had appeared, tilting the balance from a family of six to seven.

Erica had always fitted into the Miles family’s dynamic: as an eager, attractive and pleasant child, she had bonded well with the biological sons, first as sister then as tutor to the boys as they grew. She had also been a great friend to Judith, who insisted the Kents were to consider her as a mother; an idea Erica had warmed to considerably quickly.

Emerson, however, had been the more mild child, sensitive and fearful of replacement, never feeling appropriate to accept the maternal attachment from Judy, and deterred from the pleasant but gruff company of the Captain. Liam and James had revered him as an older sibling, as all boys did, but with more proximity to Erica, they never attached themselves to the quiet, reserved Kent.

Kent had also felt a heavy responsibility on his shoulders as he’d grown, as the only son of the Miles’ for nearly a decade, he had joined the Royal Navy, barely into his puberty in order to live up to the Captain’s expectations, hoping to rise ranks and make a Captain himself one day.

He had been dismissed, permanently, unfit for full naval service, with no hope for the future at the age of nineteen.

Now twenty seven, neither he nor his sister were married, the Captain was nearing retirement age (though retirement seemed less than likely for the man,) and the boys were much too young to look forwards to the prospect of an incoming dowry any time soon.

“Too many mouths to feed.” Kent said the words under his breath, feeling his heart constrict as he said them. He may not have felt like he’d belonged as a child of the Captain, but- but, he realised, as his vegetables cooled on his plate, he was. He bit his lip as a tide of futility hit him, seeing just how obnoxious he had been as a young man, throwing around his feelings of ‘displacement’ as an orphan. Kent had not made the effort to be a family member, and had blamed his family for it.

And now, realising it, he could hardly do anything about it.

His being at the house had meant that the Captain could go abroad more often, fight in longer battles, he could leave his wife and children, accounts and debts to the hands of Kent, who had been promoted from ward to guardian, but it was hardly a satisfying arrangement. Especially now, if they were to downsize, to move to a more manageable estate. And Liam and James would hardly need a guardian forever.

“But-” Kent gulped, the accounts flooding in his brain as he analysed his food, as if his pork loin and onions could reveal the answers to their financial decline. “I had not noticed we were in that desperate a need?” Was this just another failure of Kent’s? Surely not, surely he could not have missed such a gaping need for money?

He looked first to Miles, who had just taken a bite, and then at Judy, who he hadspent many hours with, clearing funding and spendings with her before totalling the accounts. She frowned too, and joined Kent in turning to her husband for answers.

“Ah.”

Miles cleared his throat, and Judy groaned, her glass clinking as it collided with the table, a sound too loud in the too empty room. “Have you been keeping something from us?”

Kent had only heard Judy use this tone of voice a handful of times. Once had been the time Erica had decided to climb a tree in her new gown, tearing the lace before she’d even attended the event it had been bought for. Another had been when Liam had batted a ball through one of the lower windows, and Kent had tried to take the blame for it (he was weak to his brothers, no matter what he said. Judy hadn’t believed it for a second, and had been twice as angry at Liam for blaming it on Kent.)

Miles took too long to chew through the piece of meat he’d been eating to be at all realistic, smiling around his wife at Liam. “Your mother sounds pretty angry, hm?”

“Mr. Miles, if you do not explain yourself, I shall have to take matters into my own hands,” Judy gritted out, swatting her giggling son into obedience. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, eyes glinting daggers.

Miles hummed, no doubt wondering why his wife was not the demure, opinionless woman she might have been, and realising that he would have been six feet under several times by now if not for her. “Do you remember that old hag, Louise Iver?”

“Your great aunt, or some such?” Judy replied, slightly offput by the memory of the Lady, though they had only met once. She would usually not stand for such language in her household, but the woman had been frankly displeasing.

“Aye, possibly. Never was too sure on the family tree when it was about her…”

“And what about the Lady?”

Miles looked slightly perplexed for a second, as if his memory had clouded. “I met her the other day, can’t quite… I cannot quite recall where, but she gave me a document…” Any remnant of jovialness had dissipated and Judy’s face stilled into a rock-like expression.

“Children, upstairs with you. Erica, if you could please take the boys to bed? And have Mrs. Riley feed Charlotte.”

Erica nodded, jaw taut, disliking being kept from the conversation, but obliged, hurrying Liam and James away from the table with Charlotte in her arms. Knowing Erica and her magic touch, she would only take a couple of minutes to bed them and be back before the conversation had finished.

As they exited, Miles took a folded letter from his inner pocket, Kent and Judy abandoning their seats to come stand beside him at the head of the table.

A cold sense of dread made its way up Kent’s back as he read through the letter, written in an immaculate handwriting and signed by the woman in question. He read it again, not skipping anything, reading sentences twice, thrice so that he wasn’t misunderstanding…

“If this is correct, and the interest is as much as she says, we must owe…” Kent felt sick. They owed tens of thousands in a family debt inherited from a long-past great, great relative, easily as much as Whitechapel could sell for.

Miles nodded, grim, hands picking at the skin around his nails. “Bloody witch must have been waiting to spring this on us for decades. Easily fifty years, if not longer. God knows how old she must be by now.”

“What’re we to do, Ray?” Judy sunk back into her seat, hands jittery as Miles took hers into his.

“No choice but to rent, my dear. Live frugally for a couple of years, thrift a little in Bath or the like, retain some sense of dignity for the children, and accumulate the funds until we can afford to pay the bat off and buy the Manor back before Liam’s of age to inherit it.” Miles glanced at Kent as he said it, and it occurred to him that Miles thought Kent had entertained thoughts of inheriting the Manor before Liam.

“I think it’s a good plan, Sir,” Kent stated, truthfully, meeting Miles’ eye and giving as sincere a smile as he could in the situation. Kent could happily live in a cottage in the countryside so long as he had a piano, a violin and his composition equipment. He had no desire for a place as big as Whitechapel. “And I assume I would be to retain here and keep a check on the documents while you are gone? To act an accountant of sorts?”

Miles smiled a smile of relief, gratitude shining off him. “That would be ideal,” Miles admitted. “For I shall be quite busy dealing with other accounts, and I trust you more than any of those men one could hire for the matter.”

“You said one of your Navy friends would be interested?” Judy asked, voice not quite as hopeless as before as she looked between the two men. She was not a vain woman, nor was she a spendthrift, and could easily deal with bargaining for a couple of years if it meant returning to prosperity later in the line.

“Yes, well.” This, Miles looked quite proud about. “An Admiral, actually. Admiral Anderson. He expressed great interest in the property, said he, his wife and his godson were looking for a temporary abode for a couple of years, until his next big posting. Was quite lenient in the pricing.” Miles scoffed. “Said his godson had won quite a bit in the war, prizemoney enough to rent the place himself, if he should so wish.” He bounced his eyebrows with a small chuckle. “Quite the eligible bachelor.”

“Miles,” Judy sighed, humouring him now that her spirits had lifted. “I’m quite sure Charlotte’s far too young for the godson of an Admiral.”

Kent, too silent, had gone a ghostly shade of white, Miles’ attempt at humour deflecting from him. “Admiral Anderson?” he finally managed to choke out.

“Aye, you know him, son?”

“No- I- his godson, that would be Lieutenant Chandler?”

“Captain,” Miles corrected, frowning. “Captain Chandler. Is everything quite alright, Emerson? You don’t look well.”

“Yes I’m- I’m afraid I need to… if you’ll excuse me, I need to...  Sorry.” With the feeble half-excuses, Kent strode out of the room, eyes unfocused as he hurried to his room, bounding up the stairs, two at a time.  He made it to his door before his arm was caught by another, turning him forcefully around.

“Em?” Erica asked, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I need to be alone, leave me be, Erica.”

Kent pulled his arm out of her grip, but it wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped, and she followed him into his room before he could so much as think about closing the door. While Erica might obey the Miles’, she put up with none of Emerson’s orders, pleas or vague hopes, and she fell heavily onto the bed besides him as he sat, hands covering his face.

Erica always managed to make endearments sound like threats, and today was no different. “You’re going to tell me what has happened, dearest brother.”

Kent wanted to do nothing of the sort.

Kent also knew he had no choice in the matter, and from nearly thirty years experience, it would be swifter, easier and vaguely less painful to get this over with sooner rather than later. It didn’t mean he was already regretting the unsaid words. He let himself take a second, as if he could compose himself in the situation.

“...The one renting Whitechapel while we’re to pack up and leave,” he started, throat clogged, words tumbling out too fast. Erica shifted closer, all teasing leaving her as she noted the depths of Kent’s emotion on the matter. She put a hand on his knee, encouraging him with a silent pat. “It’s Admiral Anderson.”

Erica breathed a low, slow breath.

“And his godson, the good Captain Chandler shall be accompanying him.”

“Oh.” Her voice was thick with sympathy. Pity. And something else. Something… angry.

“And,” Kent laughed, not knowing why he was laughing when he was feeling so desolate, “I am to stay here while you all live in a nice room in Bath. Alone. With the Admiral and the Captain and their lady friends.”

Erica stiffened. “The Captain has a lady?” she asked, her voice dangerous.

“I don’t know, he must do, mustn’t he? A betrothed, even if he has not… if he is…” Kent’s lip quivered and he hated it, he hated the clench of his heart, the one he’d not felt so strong in eight years. Eight years since he’d last seen the Captain. “...unmarried.”

“Em…” her voice was tinged with reprimanding, sounding like she was telling James off for kicking his brother. She peeled his grip off of his face, untangling fingers from his curls in order to stroke her own through them, loosening the curls and softly patting them down, hushing him. “The truth?”

Kent’s jaw locked, bleary eyes staring holes into the carpet till his face was tugged up by strong fingers, Erica forcing him to look at her as she searched his eyes.

“He’s an ‘eligible bachelor’,” Kent quoted, unable to keep the spite out of his words.

Erica’s eyes squinted, reflectively, mouth downturning. “Would it have been better for him to have been married?” she queried, and Kent’s lips resumed their trembling.

He nodded.

At least then there wouldn’t be this open-endedness. This feeling of being continually unable to have a closure to the torment he had endured for too long now. All for one man. All for one man.

Erica enveloped him in a hug, dragging him close to her, one hand stroking his head, the pressure pushing his face into her shoulder, the other hand tight around his shoulder, gripping the back of his dinner jacket.

Kent gulped, then gulped again,  trying to keep the lump from forming in his throat.

“It was for the best, Em,” she soothed. “You know that.”

Kent’s heart stopped beating again, and he suddenly felt dizzy with misalignment. Here was his twin sister, his comfort, his only blood left alive, his greatest friend and the one he loved dearest in the world. Here she was, telling him it was for the best to have persuaded him to cut contact with Chandler. To have broken their … their what, exactly?

Kent bit the inside of his cheek, coming back to himself. This is why it had to be stopped eight years ago. His sister was right. It was not proper. He had his family to look after, he had more pressing issues. The Miles’ relied upon him, and he could not let… whatever happened nearly a decade ago compromise that.

Kent took a shuddering breath and let his arms coil around her, willing his tears not to spill. He nodded, slowly, then more resolved, focusing on breathing, regulating his heart before he could manage words. “Yes. Yes, you’re right,” Kent said, telling himself as much as Erica. “It was for the best.”

It would have been easier if Chandler had married. 


	3. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greetings are hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter i s2g has not wanted to upload for 2 days

 

To say the next few weeks had been hectic was an understatement. The house had been cleaned, top to bottom, and though the place was rarely dirty, it now glimmered, dustless, spotless, walls whiter than snow. Sheets had been placed over furniture, crystal glasses and crockery had been wiped to perfection, silverware had been polished to within an inch of their lives.

The Miles’ clothes and dearest possessions had had to be packed, and though the Admiral had been amiable about letting the family keep their larger possessions within the manor, there was still the feeling of upheaval, of removing their personal lives from the building.

That was, other than Kent. Kent, though not idle in the process, far from, still had his fully furnished room to come back to in the evenings, his full wardrobe to pick outfits from in the mornings and at dinner. For the first time in his life, Erica’s dresses did not occupy the leftover space in his closet, her hat boxes did not fill his shelves. She had left her books with him, knowing he had more love for them than her, but there was the lack of presence that, though Kent knew was temporary, was sudden and completely new to him. 

Since his return from the war, they had not been separated for longer than a couple of hours at most. Kent accompanied her shopping, Erica always managed to tag along with him when he went shooting. Kent would play at the piano while Erica painted, both using one another as their muse. Erica would take a stroll in the garden and if Kent was not on her arm, he was lazing near one of the fountains and maintain conversation as she passed him. It was ridiculous, she was only going forty miles away, less than a day’s ride, and yet it seemed impossibly far all of a sudden.

Erica, sensing her twin’s discomfort as usual, made sure to spend as much time as humanly possible attached to his hip, poking him often, jabbing him to remind him just how much he hated her, was devoted to her, would miss her while she was gone.

And then they were in the carriage and pulling out of the courtyard, and Kent was left waving to the open road. 

He’d barely put his hand down before the new occupants’ carriage sped in, all slick black paint and slick black horses. A fury rose in Kent, then, wanting to shoo the trespassers away from his home, from the empty shell where his family should be, to tell them money be damned, he wouldn’t let them impinge on this moment, this abandonment… and then the feeling dampened. 

This was not a question of pride, he reminded himself. This was a necessary and  _ temporary  _ arrangement so as to ensure Liam, James and Charlotte could live lives in far more comfort and with a better wellbeing than he had. This was for the Miles’. 

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of him and he stood where he was, adjusting himself with his hands to his side, Navy training coming back to him like it had never left. The driver jumped off of his seat and pulled open the door, letting the Admiral and his wife out to view their new property. As soon as the man’s foot had touched the ground, Kent snapped sharper, straighter, willing his leg to cooperate just this once. 

“You must be Kent,” the Admiral greeted. The man’s appearance was not nearly as commanding as his voice, just too-slight, too gaunt of face to have been respected on any ship. Kent did not allow his demeanour reveal what he thought of the man, instead offering his hand to be shook.

“Aye, Sir. I hope your journey was pleasant?” Kent tried not to look too interested in why the carriage was now empty, the third expected passenger apparently not with them. 

“Quite.” Pleasantries apparently over for the Admiral, he shook Kent’s hand, briefly and with a disinterested grip, pushing past him in order to get a closer look at the house. No matter, it wasn’t as if Kent was looking to be on good relations with the man anyway. He smiled at the Admiral’s wife, who greeted him with a similar expression. Kent wondered whether the lady would be as the Admiral was, vain and uptight, or like Judy and Erica were. 

“The Captain’s family has left?” the Admiral asked, the phrasing biting Kent, because he was part of the Captain’s family, he was still here, he wanted to correct the man, but he knew better.

“Yes sir.”

“And yourself?” Anderson didn’t remove his eye from the grand windows, as if he was asking what side of the house the sun set. Then he was moving, his wife following him up the front stairs and indoors.

“Me, Sir?” Kent asked, now confused and trying to keep up, trying not to limp.

“Yes… remind me of the arrangements made about your… accommodation.” 

_ Oh.  _ Kent had not considered that he might not actually be welcome in the house while he was there conducting business, and he wondered why, if that was the case, Miles had not warned him sooner to save him this complete humiliation. How was he to say he still expected to live in the room he had been occupying since he was eight?

“I have a cousin at an estate, only a few miles from here,” Kent said, polite smile on his lips as he addressed the Admiral’s back. “If you would prefer, I could contact him about lodging there.”

“Yes. Well, that would be-”

The Admirals firm agreement was cut off by a too-familiar voice behind them. “It would be helpful if he stayed.” Kent tried his hardest not to wince, his taut smile already spinning into a grimace that he contained. He heard the echoed footsteps fall in the hallway until the Captain was stood besides them. 

Chandler did not spare Kent a glance as he too addressed his opinion to the Admiral, who now turned with a slightly less icey expression. “I would like to know the staff and area, and without a previous family valet, we are at a distinct disadvantage.”

The Admiral sniffed, thin lips thinning further as he appraised Kent, looking him up and down as if looking over a ship for leaks. “Emerson Kent, this is Captain Joseph Chandler.”

“Yes, we’re acquainted,” Chandler said as Kent murmured: “A pleasure to meet you.” They both winced.

“We met previously. A while ago. I don’t suppose you would remember,” Chandler said, voice hollow as he shook Kent’s hand.

“I remember. I did not think you would.” Kent gulped, hoping his snipped sentences didn’t sound too odd to the Admiral’s ears.

“Well. If you think it wise.” The Admiral turned to the Captain and gave him a brief nod, which was returned. “Very well, you are welcome to stay, Kent. Come, Mary, I feel a turn about the gardens.” The Admiral’s wife attached herself to his arm and they swept out of the open double door into the spring-time greenery, leaving Chandler and Kent alone in the morning sun-lit corridor.

Kent knew this moment had to come eventually, but he’d hoped to have extended the moment to perhaps a couple of weeks into the re-acquaintance, enough time for him to have learnt something about the man’s life in his absence from Kent’s. Staring after the couple, Kent wondered if he could be excused to walk away, to his room or to the kitchens. He wondered if Chandler would even step foot in a kitchen. 

“I apologise. He made it sound as if you were not welcome in your own home.” 

Kent didn’t know what to do with himself now that all he could think of was running away, especially when the man was offering him consolation like this. “I apologise for… not… for the greeting. I didn’t mean to. I only. I did not wish to…” Kent sighed, getting nowhere with his improvised excuses. “I did not know what was for the best.”

“You are well?” Kent nearly jumped out of his own skin at the question, eyes darting to Chandler’s face of their own volition, meeting Chandler’s own and causing them to lock. Eyes too wide and cheeks flushing, Kent managed to pull himself out of the look, staring at a nearby door instead. He gulped, nodded. “And your… injury?”

Kent could not prevent a shocked, mirthful laugh, little more than an exhalation of air, but powerful, charged with his disbelief at being asked such a sensitive question. Nobody had ever asked, no one had ever acknowledged, they buried it deep beneath social proprietary and faff. He found himself needing to look back at Chandler’s face, to assess what emotions the taller man was experiencing, but could not understand what he was seeing.

Chandler looked… concerned, perhaps? But under a jaded setting of the jaw, a look of indifference, of pain, feigned or otherwise. It made Kent’s heart throb to see the expression again. It was the last one he’d seen the man wear. It was the look of betrayal. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I had not been asked so… forthright before.”

“Then it is I who should be apologising. I did not mean to ask you such an invasive question.” 

“ ...It is better,” Kent tried, shifting on his feet and feeling the scarred skin pull. He wasn’t lying, the injury was much better than the last time Chandler had seen it. “Thank you for…”  _ the concern? Was that too forwards? for asking? for making sure I did not bleed to death at sea? for nearly killing yourself in the process? _ “ ...Thank you.”

Chandler gave a nod as a reply, shifting on his own feet because of the stunted conversation, evidently not knowing how to follow the reply.

“And yourself?” Kent blurted, the words reaching his mouth before his brain. This time it was Chandler who startled, finding his own door to occupy his eyes with. 

“Yes. Good. Thank you. ...Richer, I suppose.” 

Kent wasn’t sure if the words were supposed to be cutting, and if they were, who exactly they were attacking. From anyone else, Kent would have found the jab at their economic standing, Kent lacking any personal funds and Chandler gilded beyond compare, extremely insulting. He would have turned tail then and there, searching out his cousin’s company and not looked back.

But this  _ was _ Chandler. This was the Lieutenant who’d been oddly compassionate, self-deprecating despite his confident manner, willing to listen to his men, willing to do anything, sacrifice anything for the good of others. Chandler was not a man tempted by riches, nor was he pleased by them. It made Kent want to know why exactly Chandler was standing here, in a manor house in Somersetshire, not on a vessel in the middle of an ocean, calling out commands.

Kent supposed he could ask, but to do so would be to cross that line. The line he had set those weeks ago with Erica, the line that said he would not show any interest in the man, would not let his hopes up again. 

So instead of replying, Kent nodded, and the moment passed, and the grandfather clock besides them chimed. He glanced at it and, as if he didn’t know exactly what time it was, pulled an expression he hoped looked mildly pressing. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to?” Chandler frowned, turning to gauge the time for himself and pulling a similar expression.

“Yes, I… too, have things to be done.” Chandler said, not at all suspiciously, and looking like he was kicking himself for it. “One question, if you can spare it?”

Kent’s heart leapt for the goodness knows how many time’th time that day and he nodded. “Would you be available some time this afternoon, perhaps? I would like to, as I said, make the acquaintance of the staff.”

Kent frowned. For some reason, he hadn’t actually assumed Chandler had wanted the tour, or to be in Kent’s general vicinity, but there was only so much he could say to such a request. It surely wouldn’t harm anyone to introduce the man to the people working within his new home’s walls, right?

Kent glanced at the clock again. “The kitchen staff will be busy from around four onwards, if you would like to join me at around three?” That would give them enough time and warning to clean the downstairs after lunch.

“Yes, that would suit me well, thank you.” There was a flicker of a smile on Chandler’s face before he strode off, out of the house and to who knew where. Kent was left feeling slightly apprehensive as to what the next few months were to bring him.

  
  
  


 


	4. Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megan Riley is my sweet child.

“He’s what?” Riley paused from where she was folding sheets, rolling her eyes at Kent. “Well he’s not coming in ‘ere, we’ve got a kitchen to run, love. Can’t let the upstairs folk be milling around, it’ll scare the lasses.”

“He asked, Riley, what was I supposed to do, reject him?” Kent sighed, pulling at the material around his neck, the kitchen’s heat unpleasant after the cool breeze upstairs. He loved being down here, in the hustle and bustle of familiar faces, but not when he was dressed so formally. They had never been an upstairs downstairs family, and their modest-sized serving staff were all long-serving and well acquainted.

Mrs Megan Riley, housekeeper and occasional nanny had been a prominent figure in Kent’s childhood as both the one who could make him laugh when even Erica could not, and the one to lash him when he had misbehaved. With a lack of anyone else to talk to, Kent usually found himself in her company, despite her unrelenting teasing.

“Well he can come in but he ‘ain’t getting a quick poke, if you see what I mean.”

“Riley!” Kent blanched, unable to tolerate her heavy sexual innuendos, as usual. “You will avoid all such conversation in his presence, you hear me?”

“Aww, look at him,” Riley grinned, addressing the wider staff congregating around them. “The puppy’s trying to be commanding!”

There was a burst of laughter, some of the older housemaids and footmen clapping him on the back in consolation, but he growled at them, which only furthered the laughter. “I’ll have you all fired and replaced,” Kent murmured, trying to stop Riley’s smile from infecting him. He didn’t want to smile, he was in a hopeless position, in a hopeless circumstance, he didn’t want to laugh.

In the end, the conversation had dissolved into a standard make-fun-of-one-another-and-get-nothing-done job, Kent filling with the joy he’d missed for months under the stress of the economy, his social status, his love life and lack thereof. By the time three rolled around, the kitchen was still in a mess and he was barely better. He had just enough time to speed to his room, change out of his luncheon clothes and into something more suitable, try to comb his hair into something at all presentable and make his way back to the grandfather clock in the hallway.

Chandler was already waiting, as Kent had expected, which made Kent’s ten minute tardiness feel all the longer. “Apologies, unexpected business kept me.”

Chandler just nodded and Kent ruffled his hair, self-conscious under the man’s gaze. “Right. Upstairs first?” Kent started moving as he asked, giving Chandler no choice as he took him to greet the various chauffeurs, housemaids and footmen doing their duties. Each was given a polite nod by Chandler, a ‘how do you do’, all returned with a curtsey or a bowed nod.

Kent felt strangely uncomfortable taking the man to visit each member of the house. It wasn’t as if Chandler was going to be asking these people to attend him by name, and the process was clumsy, sometimes seeing the same worker in different rooms and requiring them to stop their work in order to bow again in their master’s’ presence.

Kent was almost glad when they managed to make it down the stairs to the last room in the house unvisited, even if the place had looked a bombsite the last time he’d seen it. He remembered Chandler’s obsession with order and cleanliness, something the kitchens very much were, just not in the eyes of an outside observer.

“Captain Chandler, Mrs Megan Riley, housekeeper and nanny to the Miles’ children.”

Megan beamed her usual beam, wiping her hands on her apron before outstretching a hand to Chandler, who looked at it like it might injure him. “And nanny to this one too, though with a serious face like his, it’s hard to believe he was ever a little tot, ain’t that right, Captain?”

The Captain in question shook his head, still watching her hand. “Mrs Riley,” Kent said, barely restraining the plea in his voice. “You wouldn’t want to get kitchen mess on the Captain, would you?” He shot a glance at her hand, and she lowered it instantly, nodding at Kent’s bewildering adamance.

“No, right, sir. Sorry.” She sobered up, beam slipping to obedient smile. “I’ll just introduce you to the other lot, shall I?” Kent’s guilt at treating the woman like a servant for the first time ripped at him, but he had to be loyal to Chandler, right? He had to make sure the Admiral and his family actually wanted to rent the house? And that meant the workers didn’t make the owners shake their grubby hands. He tried to relay the sentiment in a grateful smile, which she returned, though hesitant.

“Captain, this is Mrs Caroline Llewellyn, head cook.” Llewellyn, having seen the exchange before hers, didn’t offer her own hand, instead giving a small curtsey, completely unused to it, but Chandler seemed to appreciate the gesture, so she smiled a little brighter.

“A pleasure, Mrs Llewellyn. I greatly enjoyed the lunch this afternoon.”

“Oh you’re too kind, Sir,” Llewellyn grinned, pride glowing from her. “‘n any case, half the thanks should be to our Miss Pepper, here,” the woman said, patting Lizzie forwards, much against the younger girl’s will.

“Well then. Thanks to you, Miss Pepper,” Chandler responded, the girl all but exploding in blush, turning a knife Kent didn’t know had been jammed in his heart.

“Well I’ll be, thought nothing could get the girl to look up from her work, and here you come, making our Pepper go all red!” Llewellyn laughed, whacking her girl’s  back cheerfully. Kent gritted his teeth as he looked between the two, both shy and reserved and tinged with red and he could feel the jealousy bubbling beneath his skin.

“What’s eating you, then?” whispered a voice in his ear, and Kent remembered to breathe out, to tear his glance from the pair.

“Nothing,” he dismissed, pushing away from Riley.

“You look a little green, there, Sir,” Riley said, voice a dark teasing, payback for her previous mistreatment. “Jealousy perhaps? Envy that the serving girl’s got your man all a flutter?”

Kent elbowed past her, not dignifying her accusations with a reply. “Captain,” he called, and even to his own ears the voice sounded possessive. The man spun, looking innocent and laddish and Kent felt himself falling again and this was really bad, this was far beyond the line. “I have work to be getting on with so if you’ll excuse me,” he rushed, spinning on the spot and ascending first the stairs taking him away from the servant’s quarters, then the ones leading to his room.

Completely unsurprisingly, Kent was out of breath by the time Chandler, barely looking like a hair was out of place, caught his arm and pulled him to a stop in the same place Erica had done a fortnight ago. What was surprising was that the man had done so in the first place, and completely unthinking, reacting to his body, Kent pulled away without looking who it was. “Leave me, Erica, I’m fine-”

The first sign that anything was wrong was that the owner of the grip obliged, removing themselves from Kent. The second sign was that the action was followed by an apology, something Kent was not very used to receiving.

“Oh- sorry- I thought-” Kent shook his head at Chandler, still panting slightly, ears burning under the man’s gaze, and Chandler took a step back, standing at ease with his hands behind his back, the standard position for an officer to fall into when he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Nevermind. Sorry. I’m busy. If you require anything else, ask Mrs Riley, she will be able to pass a message along.”

“I- I hope I haven’t… I did not mean to offend Mrs Riley before. I sensed the tension because of my actions, which were completely unacceptable, even to someone of her standing. I wanted you to know that.” Chandler stood stock still as he said his apology, which bristled Kent, who felt like an emotional wreck, and probably looked it too. Trust Chandler to have moved on with his life, while here Kent was, practically in tears in front of his bedroom door.

‘Someone of her standing,’ Kent repeated in his mind, and his jaw clenched. “I am hardly Mrs Riley’s valet, Captain. If you wanted to apologise, it would be more appropriate to do so to her face.” Kent turned his doorknob and pushed the door open. “I really must be getting on with work. Good afternoon.”

Kent’s door clicked shut and he slid down it to his bedroom’s floor, curling his knees to his chest and resting his head against them. He thought he heard footsteps departing from the door a couple of minutes later, but he was too busy crying to care very much who they belonged to. 


	5. Malleable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow double post.

Thus began a month of avoidance. Kent would have Riley prepare his breakfast to be eaten in his room, lunch he might take with the Admiral and family if he was sure all would be in attendance, and dinner he spent at his cousin’s more often than not. Edward Buchan was a distant relative more than a cousin, but with so few family between them, at some point in the relationship they had started to refer to one another as cousins, easier than explaining the family’s lackluster prosperity to anyone who enquired. The man was a religious one in training, self-educated in the ways of the Lord, though he had never been tutored by anyone remotely official.

Kent wouldn’t say he was particularly keen on the man’s company, but as opposed to Chandler’s, he would take his cousin and his mad rambles any day. He was about to depart from his room to meet the man when he heard a commotion from downstairs and frowned. These days, you rarely heard a pin dropping in the place, let alone raised voices, and so, rushing to put on his coat, he jogged down the stairs and into the hallway.

“Emerson! Help me!” Came a strangled voice as he descended the last few steps, “These strange men are trying to take me away!”

The strange men turned out to be the Admiral and the Captain, joined by a couple of the Admiral’s associates, who had been dining with them on occasion when they passed through the area. At the cry, they stopped, dropping the man they had been manhandling through the door unceremoniously to the floor.

“Kent, you know this-” the Admiral sounded like he had barely stopped himself from cursing the man. “We found him in the library and assumed he was a vagrant.”

Kent snorted before he could stop himself, schooling his laughter into something vaguely appropriate. “Yes, Sir. My er, Cousin, Edward Buchan. Ed, this is Admiral Anderson, Captain Chandler, and the Admiral’s friends.”

Ed picked himself up and started to dust off his ruffled clothes, preening as if he were a peacock and revelling in the attention the now socially-obliged-to-be-nice men were paying him. “So you’re the infamous Joseph Chandler, are you? Well, I’ve heard quite the bit about you, that’s for sure.”

And there it was. The killing blow. Nobody knew quite where to look, so all eyes fell on Kent, other than his own, who drilled into the blissfully unaware Buchan. When Ed eventually pulled his thoughts out of his own pride, he tilted his head, frowning at Kent.

“I did not realise I was the talking point of the household,” Chandler breathed, somehow managing to sound at once as if it were all a joke and a mortal sin. A couple of the friends laughed, unsure but deciding that that was the best course of action, and Kent joined them, trying his hardest to match their awkward chuckles.

“Well, being young and unmarried in a small area like this,” Kent smiled, addressing the men as if he were one of them, as if it were an in joke that they all understood. “It’s not just the household talking about you, Sir.”

“Ah. Right. Quite.” Chandler nodded, and the men erupted into sly grins, jostling him with little nudges.

“Talking of, Joseph, when are you going to get yourself a wife?” one particularly over-eager, over-sideburned Captain asked. “Plenty of young ladies around, right, Kent?”

Kent nodded, trying to find it within him to be happy to have been included in the group, trying to ignore the expression of muted horror on Chandler’s face.

“I seem to remember you having a sweetheart back in the day, to be engaged, weren’t you?” Kent and Chandler stilled, neither quite looking at each other, nor looking away. “Oh what was her name, I had it on the tip of my tongue…” the man clicked his fingers, trying to recall.

“Wasn’t she a relative of yours?” Another, older man said, inclining his head at Kent. “A Kent was she not?”

“Emma! Emma Kent, yes, I do remember, whatever happened to her, you old dog.”

“No relation,” Kent managed, labouring to take a breath. He gulped, smiling at the group, hoping to god Ed didn’t chime in now about how ‘there really was a coincidence, what with Emerson being such a close name to Emma’.

“She broke off the engagement. I cannot say I blame her. We were at war. Distances do not bode well for young relationships.”

“Here, here,” a heavily bearded man acquiesced, lifting his hand as if holding a drink in cheers.

The Admiral was frowning, either because of the rabble or because of his concerns, looking relatively angrier than his usual self. “You never informed me of an engagement,” he said, sounding incensed.

“It was short-lived enough not to have mattered whether I told you or not.” All humour had left Chandler’s face, and the men had good sense enough not to probe any further, only the Admiral huffing his disbelief at the story. “Now I suppose I would be lucky to marry the first person to show interest.”

Kent burned. With humility. With anger.

What was he supposed to have done. Why was he the enemy? Why did Chandler look so betrayed, when it had been Chandler’s fault? When both of them were at fault?

Instead, he laughed along with the men, making sure to look directly into Chandler’s eyes as he did so.

“Er, Emerson, I’m sorry if I’m intruding on something, but this really cannot wait.” Kent could have kissed Ed in that moment, and he was pretty sure it showed on his face.

“Right! Sorry, dear cousin, let me show you to the other room. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I must have a conversation with Mr. Buchan.” Kent hoped his enthusiasm didn’t make any of the men curious as to what they were needing to talk about, but he was already pulling Buchan away and into the library, not allowing any of them to follow after.

Kent caught one last look of Chandler as he closed the door, and slammed it with a panicked force as he found grey eyes training on him.

“So that was Joe.” Buchan was making himself at home on one of the sofas within the room, the one he usually occupied for hours on end when doing his research in their extensive library. “I cannot say I see what you saw in him, he seems quite the rude one, even if, and of course I mean this in the most homosocially acceptable way, he has conventionally attractive features.”

“Ed, we agreed we would never discuss the philosophy of attraction again. You know how that ended last time.” At the impressionable age of nineteen, Kent had come home needing answers for the things he had felt and, as any reasonable young man would have done, he turned to the Bible, a venture Buchan was only too happy to help with. Kent sighed, sparing one last glance at the door and puddling into the chair opposite his cousin. The last time Buchan had asked about his sexuality, several misunderstandings had taken place, a couple of footmen had needed letting go, and Buchan had finally realised his crush on Riley had been a case of mistaken identity, of mixing philia with eros. Never a day too soon, in Kent’s eyes. “You had an emergency?” Kent reminded, folding one leg over his other, chin resting in his palm.

“Oh! Yes! Fungi!” Buchan’s eyes kindled that wild look in them, the one he had when he knocked on the Miles’ door at three in the morning with warnings of the apocalypse.

“Fungi?” Kent questioned, not feeling up to humouring another one of Ed’s false prophesies. This one, he must admit, was relatively original, though he was particularly fond of the tales of meteor showers destroying the planet.

“My poor house, completely covered with the stuff. The rot is everywhere, in every wall, it’s a wonder the place hadn’t collapsed on top of me in my sleep!”

“You’re being overly dramatic again.” Kent could name a number of incidents that he tried to keep as far away from memory as possible at all times.

“Not this time, Emerson. Truly, this time. I really do not know what I am going to do.” Buchan rooted at his feet for his satchel, and from it removed a hefty chunk of what, judging by the peeling wallpaper, looked like part of the man’s living-room, wrapped in an old dishcloth. He turned it over in his hands before handing it to Kent, who refused to touch it but leant forwards to inspect it.

“...What is that?” Kent’s stomach plunged. That did look a lot like rot, the plaster of the wall crumbling with a blackish mould.

“Fungi. The entire house. Completely covered. I cannot go back.”

Kent pulled back and considered the conundrum. To have the place rebuilt would cost… thousands. If not more. Much, much more. Buchan’s house was trifling compared to Whitechapel, but it was hardly a country cottage, a four-wall oak and stone thing that could easily be replaced. Kent ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the curls and pulling. It helped him think, to ground him in the reality of the situation.

“I do not expect you to pay for the place,” Ed said, quietly, covering the evidence of his ruin again and stashing it back in his bag. “I only hope you may allow me to lodge here while I collect my bearings.”

“It’s not my place to rent, Ed,” Kent said, wanting not much more than to just cry for a while.

“Then I shall ask the Admiral. Surely he’ll allow a poor vicar like myself to man that empty parish you have here...”

“You haven’t been ordained, Ed. You can’t just tell them you’re a vicar and rant at them like you do us.”

“Then… then there’s nothing for it. I shall ask that Chandler if, if he has any feelings left for you, he might find it in his heart to allow his beloved’s beloved cousin reside with him.”

Kent stood, knocking the chair out from behind him as he towered over Ed. “Stop. It ended eight years ago. I would like to keep it that way.”

“And I, dear cousin, would like a roof over my head, but we aren’t all getting what we desire this evening.” Ed looked completely unphased by the look of hatred that crossed Kent’s face, the one that Erica had described as murderous on more than one occasion.

“Kent?” There was a knock on the door and Kent heaved a sigh, collecting himself in order to face this new threat. The heavy, panelled door swung open, and Kent stepped back, moving towards the window so he didn’t have to look at the man entering. “I heard a crash, is there a problem?”

Kent heard the rustling of Buchan standing, righting the toppled chair. “Edward Buchan,” he introduced. “I apologise for the rushed greeting earlier, you simply knocked me off my feet,” Buchan joked, though he was the only one who laughed, and ended the action with a small sigh. “Well I thought it was funny. I was simply asking my cousin here for some advice.”

“If there’s anything I can help with?” Chandler offered, and Kent’s shoulders slumped. It was hard to maintain the thought that Chandler felt betrayed when he was so nice all the time. But then, that was just it, Chandler was nice to everyone. Kent was not special.

“Well since you’ve offered,” Buchan said, and Kent felt the glance shot at the back of his head. “I find myself in a spot of bother, but Emerson here felt like asking you would inconvenience both you and he.”

“Well I am personally open to requests, though I cannot speak for the- for Kent.”

“It’s just that, well, see for yourself.” Ed ducked to retrieve the evidence, all but dumping it in Chandler’s arms before Kent let his curiosity get the better of him and he turned to see the movement in slow motion.

Kent wasn’t sure who it was who made the inhuman noise as the rotted wall fell to the floor and exploded on the rug-covered floor, but it could have feasably been any and all of them as they stared at the morbidly interesting mess, at the dusty clouds attaching themselves to their trouser legs, powdering their shoes.

“Oh blast.” Ed was the first to react, attempting to sweep the biggest chunks from the floor and back into his dishcloth, ignoring (or oblivious to,) the sound of a man starting to hyperventilate above him.

“Captain? Are you- Captain? Captain, look at me,” Kent stepped around the sweeping Buchan, pulling at one of the Captain’s wrists in order to drag his attention from his feet to Kent’s face. “Joseph.”

Chandler’s eyes snapped up, desperate, clinging to Kent’s.

“We can clean it off. You will be fine. You are fine, Joseph.” Chandler shook his head, a small whine definitely coming from him this time. “I am going to take you to the washroom, are you comfortable with this?” Chandler’s breaths were shuddering, his eyes unblinking as he nodded. “Buchan, get Riley and set some of the boys on saving the carpet. And tell her to bring the Captain a change of clothes and some hot water.”

“Right.” Ed, having scooped most of the stuff off the floor, hurried out of the room, leaving Kent to drop Chandler’s wrist and head towards the nearest room with a bathtub in it.

It occurred to Kent as he undressed the Captain that, barely a couple of hours ago, he would have outright rejected touching the man, let alone stripping him of his clothes and pouring scalding water on him, cleaning off what little of the dust had made it through the many layers and onto his skin.

It was barely the first time he’d seen the man in his undershirt before, a ship being a small place and the men sparing no time nor heed for modesty. Nor was this the first time he’d had to perform this task, of pouring, wiping, and uttering calming words, and Kent was glad to know that there still remained the part of him that could distinguish between intimacy and necessity.

Kent had been granted Chandler’s trust, years ago, sure, and before a period of great change, but a situation like this called for a relationship that both of them, even buried under years of melancholy, could still respect.

Chandler was still shivering when there was a knock on the door, shivers that could not have been caused by the room’s slight chill when the tub steamed with boiled water, his skin showing a hot red. Kent straightened himself, wiping his hands on a clean towel and rolling down his shirtsleeves so there was at least some sense of plausible deniability as to what exactly they’d been doing.

He needn’t have bothered when he discovered Riley, who handed him a freshly pressed suit and assortment of necessary accessories. “Heya love… how’s he doing?”

Kent nodded, wondering vaguely when exactly it was the entire household had cottoned on to the true nature of his relationship with the enigmatic Captain Chandler. Erica had known, of course, she had been the one to persuade him, after all. And neither of the elder Miles’ had had to think too long on why exactly he’d been given the scars he had been given.

“I feel as if the Captain could appreciate some rest. He seems as if under quite some stress.”

“Well I’m sure he’s all the better for your help, love.”

Kent dampened his rolled eyes, exhaustion weakening him. “I’ll make sure to bring it up when we’re next in conversation.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, lad. If anyone else had been in that room, who knows what would have happened.”

“I’m sure the Captain can handle himself without me.” Kent laughed a short, bitter laugh. “He’s done so for eight years.”

Riley puffed out an outraged “Oi!”, whacking him on the arm, not pulling her blow and making him cry out in pain. He rubbed the offended limb, brow creased in pain and disbelief. “Has he said as much to you?”

Kent glanced behind him, well aware how easily Chandler could overhear them, but the man looked like he probably wouldn’t have realised somebody was besides him without physically indicating as much. “He has only been here for a month, Riley, we haven’t exactly been catching up on the ‘good old days’.” Kent bit his lip. “I don’t even know if he thinks of them as ‘good’.”

“Oh honey, trust me, any man willing to be pulled into a bathtub remembers their past fondly.”

“He was distressed.” Kent hugged the suit closer to himself. “Malleable.”

“I don’t know what happened to you on that ship, mister Kent, but I think it’s high time you and he talked about it.” Riley put her hands on her hips, her eyebrows raised. “Now, some of us have real work to be getting on with. Go on,” she shooed, “Don’t keep the master waiting.”


	6. Permission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring on the flashbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Krays have been condensed into a single father son rather than twins.
> 
> For some reason laptop ao3 wont upload so im doing it from my phone.

Kent is fifteen the first time he sees Lieutenant Chandler, and he feels something hopeful in his chest. He is particularly concerned by the emotion, unsure as to why he cannot stop his eyes latching on to the beautiful man- and as to why he  had just described the man as beautiful, a compliment he reserved for gardens or for Judy, not for strangers, not for men, he doesn’t find out for nearly three years. 

Kent assumes that the feelings for his Lieutenant are a standard for a young, eager, bright-eyed new hand. His fellow new recruits, Fitzgerald, McCormack, Sanders and Mansell are all rougher, older men, dab hands at manual labour if not the Navy. Some have a fisherman’s upbringing, others shepherds and cowherds, certainly none of these four, the four that Kent falls in with, have had quite the silver-spoon upbringing he had. 

They’re tough on him, biting comments at his soft, girl-like hands, his use of grammatically correct sentences, his inability to lift more than a bucket of water, for weeks on end, but they’re also the ones who teach him how to turn the blisters into hard calluses, into preventing the worst of pains. They teach him how to lift without putting too much strain on his back, and what the swear words that’d been chanted at him really meant, and how to reply without seeming a toss. 

At night when not on duty, they would share stories of their lovers, wives and families. Kent was particularly fond of the softness in McCormack’s voice as he talked about his wife and two girls. Kent could sense a devotion in him that mirrored Ray and Judy, and to an extent, the Miles’ feelings about Kent and Erica. Kent was less eager when it came to Mansell’s boasts, of how he’d been through two wives, how they were easy to ‘catch’, but harder to ‘keep’. Kent was also told where to find the best whores when docked. It made Kent slightly sick to think of anyone going near the man, doubly so when he thought any young woman like his sister could be lured into the man’s clutches. He shivered to think how any female, especially someone referred to as spitefully as a ‘whore’ would be treated by men like Mansell.

Kent, having no tales of a lover back at home and wanting to avoid talking of his sister (lest Mansell pervert his memories of her,) talked of his compositions. How, though his palms may’ve been silk soft, his fingertips were hardened by the strings he played, his arms weak but his hands deft and skilled when playing the piano. When he worked up enough courage, enough trust in these rough men not to belittle him, he hummed some of his pieces, and was incredibly gratified to find that they enjoyed them, would occasionally overhear Mansell whistling a bar of his notes. 

Though none of the men had brought an instrument onboard, long nights on windless seas were spent breathing old nursery rhymes or love ballads, the sound of hundreds of silent men and swaying hammocks as a backing chorus. 

They spent two years like this, on a creaking ship in thunderous waters, and though they were active and high on alert, they battled rarely. 1797 saw the ongoing Anglo-Spanish war rage on and the French Revolutionary wars heat up with the First Coalition, and these only worsened, spilling more and more blood until Kent was seventeen, had found his sea legs, and had mourned for Sanders, the first of their group to have fallen in war.

McCormack and Fitzgerald had been promoted under the Captain of their ship, one Jonathan Kray, son of greatly revered Admiral Ronald Kray, leaving Mansell and Kent to work their ways up the hard path. Mansell, soon after the death of Sanders, had had a fright, a bout of cowardliness that pushed him towards the kitchens, where he quickly set up station as the cook’s apprentice, and that was that, Kent was alone below decks with new recruits and familiar, but not friendly, faces. 

Around two months into his first voyage, Kent had learnt to be quiet about his infatuation with Lieutenant Chandler. Nobody had found his obsession with pleasing the man strange, per say, but Kent had realised that he had started drawing attention, looks from a couple of the stranger, lonelier men. He’d not been ignorant as to the grunts in the night, but somehow he had not aligned these lustful noises with his affections,  God, ‘affections’ for Chandler. 

Chandler hadn’t been specifically nice to Kent, nor had he paid any special attention to him, no more than a polite thank you or a smile in his direction when a task was well done, but Kent had realised over the years that his own beams of pleasure in return had made the Lieutenant double take on more than one occasion, which, he supposed, was something. 

“Left’nt’s calling for you.” Mansell waved as he fell onto his hammock beside Kent’s, one hand steadying himself on the material as the other grasped what looked suspiciously illegal.

“Good Lord, Mansell, what depths of hell did you crawl out from?” The man smelt of food and a sickly sweet, slightly rotting odour mixed with the scent of the man’s sweat. The alcohol on his breath didn’t help either and Kent suddenly felt a bout of seasickness coming on.

“No depths, just drowning,” Mansell said slowly, trying to enunciate his words correctly and grinning as he held up his bottle, chugging. “Gettit? Because we’re on a ship. Drowning. Our sorrows. In fine, fine beverages! Do you want some?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Good. More for me.”

“You said the Lieutenant was calling for me?”

“Aye, er in the- er, in his? In the room in which he is sitting in.” Mansell looked serious, trying to remember where exactly that was as he sipped. “We had a feast. In King and Kray’s name! A lot of drinking. Even his nibs, his left’ncy’s drunker than- drunker than- He’s drunker than...”

Kent sighed. “Don’t think too hard, you’ll strain something.” He patted Mansell, who’d thrown an obscene gesture at him, and gathered his things away, straightening his uniform. He wished he’d had some prior warning to the sudden calling, he would have put an extra shine on his boots, but he supposed they would have to do. He was assuming this wasn’t an urgent summons, else they wouldn’t have trusted a completely inebriated Mansell.Why they trusted him anyway was anyone’s guess, but he supposed he did get the message in good time, so he would give Mansell that. 

Kent walked through the ship, the rowdy voices all but dying down in the early hours of the morning. Those on duty were quiet, and those who had joined in on the night’s festivities littered the decks. When Kent reached the Lieutenant’s room he knocked and entered, standing to attention in the doorway.

“Kent? Come in.” 

Kent fell at ease, wondering why exactly this superior officer, who was evidently drunk, needed a regular seaman at god-only-knew what hour of the morning. 

Chandler considered him for a second, back straight in his chair despite the obvious inebriation,  not a hair out of place, if his expression was slightly hazy. His features didn’t hold quite the same sea-salt hardness to them, instead replaced with a kind of aging softness: not in the sense that Chandler was old, per say, late twenties at most, but the last of his teenage lankiness was bulking out, filling with experience and wit.

Kent enjoyed the freedom of allowing his eyes to rove for longer, to return the bleary gaze with a much more comfortable one of his own. He spent the majority of his time with the Lieutenant either doing something important and physical, hardly able to spend a thought for the man, let alone examine him, or with his eyes cast down so as to not catch Chandler’s eye, and provoke and inquisitive smile.

Why was Kent staring at him?  Chandler would ask. And then Kent would have to answer an] answer he tried not to spend much time thinking about. 

“Do you drink, Kent?”

Chandler held out his bottle, empty glass occupying his other hand.

“Aye, sir, but I have morning watch, sir. Don’t want the Captain finding me drunk on watch, Sir.”

“Ah. Responsible of you.”

Chandler put down his bottle, looking like he wondered what it was doing there. Then his expression changed to something darker, less curious, and he poured himself a glass. “Do you like me?”

Kent felt the heat of the room drop completely, his heart stilling to mimic a stone. Then, all of a sudden, the heat devoid just moments ago rushed to his cheeks and to his heart, pumping faster than even it had done throughout the wars. “Excuse me, Sir?” Kent managed to croak.

Chandler downed his glass, then slid it across the table, as if the measly distance could prevent him from drinking any more of the liquid. “...you… the men…” Chandler tilted his head, brows furrowing. “I don’t think the crew likes me. Do you like me?”

“The crew.” Kent couldn’t help but mimic the words, relief both shattering and jubilant.

“Aye, the crew,” Chandler repeated, again, affirming the word. “I try my hardest to be nice, but it seems like they don’t respect me. Everyone but you. I thought you might be honest with me.”

“I think… Sir…” Kent’s eyes dropped from Chandler face as he examined the walls instead, roaming from paintings to documents to desk to floor. “I think there’s a difference between like and respect. The men… They-  We , we’re here to fight, sir, and I think it would defeat the point of Justice if we were to ‘like’ our commanding officers, our missions, your… ways of leading us into battle.” 

“Aye… yes, yes, you are entirely correct.” The lieutenant sighed, his own gaze slipping from rafter to rafter. “What I say, Kent, in this room, it stays between us?”

Kent nodded, perhaps too eager, keen to be closure to Chandler, in a way that only secrets could bring.

“The Captain… Captain Kray. On occasion, I find his methods… unnecessarily violent. We are here to kill, of course, and I take no pleasure in it, but it is our duty.” Kent nodded, agreeing. It had been hard to realise just how human the enemy were until your bullets lay in their bodies. “But the Captain… the way he scars his victims, keeping them alive just long enough for it to be torturous… it cannot be right.”

Kent bit his lip, hands fiddling with each other behind his back. “That’s…” he lowered his voice, despite the thick, padded doors, the loud swell of the sea that blocked out all unwanted voyeurs. “That’s mutiny talk, Sir.” Kent took a couple of steps closer so he could whisper, uncomfortable with the words in his mouth. “Are you planning to take on the Captain?” 

Chandler nodded, still avoiding Kent’s eye. “I had thought about it, yes. But most of the seamen are allied with the Captain, more so than with myself.” At this, Chandler finally raised his eyes to capture Kent’s with a smiled shrug. “I could not bear a failed mutiny that would lead to the execution of my followers, even if I, somehow, escaped.”

It wouldn’t be too much of a ‘somehow’. Admiral Anderson would not hesitate to severely reprimand any entity that hurt his adopted heir, mutinous or not. Followers of Chandler, however, though rare, would not be spared a harsh and gruelling end, if Kray’s legacy did not fail him.

“It would certainly not be… an easy end.” Kent swept back his hair, his overgrown curls having a tendency to slide into his face at the least opportune moments. “Though I should think any man would be proud to have died in your name, Sir.”

“Your faith in me is an honour.”

“You say that as if you do not believe it is warranted?”

“Many men have died, Kent. Not nearly as many men remain on this ship as when we set off.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Sir, but we are at war. Death is natural in our line of duty. We all knew the risks when we came aboard.”

“I seem to remember you were only a child when you first joined.” Kent gritted his teeth. That was only a couple of years ago, and he was certainly not a child.

“Fifteen, sir. And more than capable. I understood the risk when I joined, I’m not a foolish child, believing that because I am younger, God might spare me.”

“No. You’re right.” Chandler didn’t look too sure about his words, and Kent sighed.

“If you’ll forgive me for being forward, Sir?”

“Permission.”

“I like you Sir, both as one of the King’s men and without that. I may not be able to speak for the rest of the crew, who are more experienced, and perhaps more jaded than I, but I like you because of your compassion. I prefer you to Captain Kray. I prefer your methods, your attitude, and your dedication to our cause. If I were to die, Sir, I would prefer to die knowing that your plans may succeed, than knowing I was simply a pawn under the Captain.”

Kent watched Chandler visibly sober up in front of him and cringed. That was dangerously near the truths he had told himself he needed to keep within. That was too close to realities he couldn’t face. And would it even serve to make Chandler feel better? Surely he should have said something more akin to “I feel invincible under you,” or “I don’t feel like I shall die under your lead.”

“Your sincerity is humbling, Emerson.”

Kent didn’t dare breathe, lest the action provoke the Lieutenant. Chandler was gazing at him with a definite fondness, and Kent was trying to convince himself that he had not imagined the man’s use of his given name. Kent wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he’d heard his name spoken out loud, let alone by someone outside of his household. 

“You’re welcome, Sir.” Kent tried, unsure how else to respond without looking like he had just received the greatest compliment of his life, a compliment from Chandler. He looked down at his feet, suppressing a smile now that he realised the man had honestly asked for Kent’s opinion, and had appreciated the answer he had been given. It made Kent feel warm.

“You must be busy,” Chandler remembered, snapping out of what Kent was calling his alcohol-induced-stupor, “I shall let you get on. Thank you Kent. Perhaps we should meet more often.”

“Perhaps next time, I shall take you up on the offer of alcohol, Sir,” Kent smiled. It had been a long time since he’d had anything of higher grade than liquids that tasted like fermented cat piss.

“Aye,” Chandler beamed, picking up his bottle and tilting it to Kent in a mock salute. “Thank you, Kent.” 

Just as Kent was closing the door, he thought he heard a breathier, quieter addition. 

“I like you too.” 

 

 


	7. Sufficient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bath, Buchan, Bath

The morning after Chandler’s bath, Kent was greeted at his door by Riley with a tray of breakfast and a letter. “Letter came first thing, mister Kent. But after last night, I didn’t want to disturb you…” Riley not-so-subtly tried to peek into Kent’s room, searching for a person who shouldn’t (and wasn’t,) there, then sighed at the lack of discovery. “I thought I raised you better.”

Kent scrubbed at his eyes, never used to mornings, not after coming home from the war and discovering the luxury of a lie-in. “My apologies for not- what? Bedding the Captain? Riley, I’m fairly sure purely voicing the words is illegal in it’s own right.”  He yanked the tray from the grinning Riley and attempted to retreat back into his room.

If only it were that easy. The door jammed and Kent looked down to see one of Riley’s feet blocking the wood from closing. “So you admit you have a desire to bed the dear Captain?”

“Riley,” Kent warned, voice no louder than a whisper, though his tone was commanding. “Check on the Captain, make sure he is sufficiently cared for.” For once, Kent actually had pressing business to deal with, waving the letter at Riley as an excuse for not checking on the man himself. “If you do not move your foot in three seconds I shan’t hesitate to break a few of your toes.”

“Yes, mister Kent,” Riley teased, sounding for all the world like she was the mistress of the house, not he. Kent let it go, though, knowing he had escaped Riley’s true wrath for now. Had she been so inclined, he would not have been allowed to simply retreat into his room without so much as a by-your-leave. He placed the tray on his bedside table and sat at his desk in order to open the letter.

‘Dearest brother,

I know how you tire of the smalltalk, as do I, so I shall cut the tedium of our weeks at Bath in order to relay to you the much more exciting episodes. First of all, the Captain and Judy send their regards, (I believe the Captain is to send you some documents shortly,) and the children miss you dearly.

We settled into our apartment easily, as you know how Judy is, making friends the moment she stepped out of the carriage. The Captain has met a few of his old acquaintances here, and so we have been made warmly welcome. I must admit, the constant attention in Town is quite unreal when looking back, (fondly, of course,) upon our days at Whitechapel.

Now, I believe I have delayed enough, and reach the true intent of this letter. I hope you are quite settled, brother dearest, for I know the following will likely give you quite the shock. A man by the name of Captain Mansell has proposed to me. We are to be married! He is quite the gentleman, and of money too, much to our dear old Captain’s approval. Perhaps at this rate, and with the kindness of Captain Mansell, our time at Whitechapel shall not be quite such a distant thought.

Captain Mansell mentioned that perhaps you might remember him, from your time abroad? He inquires as to whether yourself and Captain Chandler might join us for an evening or two in Town so you might reminisce with him.

Lord knows I am finding this all quite exhilarating, (and, I will admit, overwhelming,) without my dearest younger brother to quench my joy with worries. It is my sincerest hope that I shall see you soon, Emerson, and that you have respected the boundaries we discussed prior to our departure.  

Yours, as ever,

E.’

Erica was getting married. Erica was getting married to Mansell. His sister was to be married to the one man on earth Kent would not want a thousand miles near her.

‘Dearest Erica,’ Kent wrote, ink splaying on the page in uncharacteristically messy writing, ‘I apologise for the hastiness of this message, but I beg that you immediately reconsider your proposal to Finlay Mansell. I shall explain further on arrival, but in the meantime, please do not act rashly and stay away from the man. Yours, Em.’

Kent galloped down the stairs, hailing a footman and sending him off to carry the letter to a messenger. Kent could but hope the letter would arrive before his sister was- abducted? Impregnated? Otherwise debauched? Kent could not bear to think about what the man could do in Kent’s absence. Break her heart, his mind supplied.

“What seems to be the matter?” Asked a voice directly behind Kent, who positively jumped to face the man. It was only after having held Chandler’s eye for several seconds did Kent realise he had bounded downstairs in little more than a shirt and breeches, a wide triangle of skin on display around his neck, his hair still mussed from sleep. This alone would not have phased Kent, had it not been for the obviousness of Chandler’s locked eyes, the lack of a roaming glance, of any hint of distaste or amusement at his state of undress. Chandler was physically restraining himself from ‘looking’ at Kent, which in turn had the effect of causing Kent more severe embarrassment.

“Captain,” Kent coughed. The bags underneath Chandler’s eyes were dark with sleeplessness, and though his attire and hair were flawless, there was a sense of untanglement about the man this morning, something off, askew. It was this, their mutual weakness, that made him tell the truth. “It is my sister, Sir,” Kent could hear himself say, slightly numb to the reality of his words. “She has sent news of her engagement.”

“And yet your expression does not hold one of congratulations.”

“Do you remember the- Captain, Mansell?”

“I cannot say I do, I’m afraid.”

“He was aboard my final posting,” Kent said, defeated. “Pleasant, mostly, loyal if not kind, a friend when one had none.”

“And this is who your sister is to marry?”

Kent nodded, playing with the top of his shirt. “Aye, Sir.” The refrain made Kent and Chandler both wince, but Kent carried on regardless. “His fault was his tales of his womanising, his many wives and countless relations. The way he spoke of ladies was distasteful at best, crude and sickening at worst.”

Chandler looked uncomfortable on the topic, but his features regained some of his commanding nature, the air of leadership he wore so well. “Perhaps this Mansell has reformed since you saw him last. Years can change a man, and if he is a Captain, he must show at least some considerable assets.”

Kent considered Chandler’s calming words, and he could admit there was sense in them. Mansell had been the cook’s apprentice, hardly Captain material, so surely he must have reinvented himself within the last decade so as to ascend from a mister Finlay to a Captain Mansell.

“I can only hope you are right. Once Erica has set her mind to something, it is difficult to persuade her otherwise.” It was particularly shocking that Erica had decided to step off of her self-induced spinsterhood, in fact.

“Well,” Chandler said, part mutter, “You and I both know that people are not what they seem.”

Kent’s brows pinched. “And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

Chandler raised a wordless eyebrow and turned to leave, red-lined coat cutting through the room. Kent stared after him, wordless, the only sound the echo of clipped footsteps in the hall and the grandfather clocks’ regular ticks. What was that, a barbed comment? Why now? Hadn’t they managed to repair their relationship at all last night?

“He seemed angry.” Ed sidled up to him, eyeing his bare-chest with confusion. “Had a good night, did we?”

“Why does everyone assume-” Kent sighed. “I didn’t realise you were still here.” Kent took in Ed’s mismatched clothes, recognising them as Miles’ old garments.

“Ah yes, well, after the fiasco, the good missus Riley heard my story and put me up for the night, bless her soul.” Ed tucked the book currently in his hand underneath his arm, hastily clarifying, “In one of the spare bedrooms, of course, no hanky panky, thank you. Wouldn’t want rumours to spread.”

“Have you heard about Erica?”

“Her marriage? Of course, it was the first thing Mrs. Riley told me this morning. You read the letter then?” That would explain Riley’s good mood. It didn’t particularly surprise Kent that Riley could, and would, open his mail before he had read it, and be able to seal the letter back up. It was a simple trick one could perform with an iron.

“Her fiancé, Mansell. He was on the ship with me that day.”

Ed’s head snapped to him, fondness gone immediately. “Was he one of the ones who…?”

Kent shook his head, slowly, biting his lip. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Either way, he did not help me.”

“Perhaps he-”

“I’m done with all these ‘perhaps’-es!” Kent interrupted. gritting his teeth. “Wait here, I shall get dressed. Tell a footman to saddle some horses.”

“Where are we going?” Ed called out after him, but Kent was already flying up the stairs and out of earshot.

-

“Emerson, you shouldn't be riding, we should go back for a carriage…”

“I’m fine, Ed, carry on.”

“But your leg-”

“I’m fine.” Kent snapped, urging his horse to speed up. His wound ached, the saddle and movement agitating his muscles, but he bit back his tears, letting the wind whip them away. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ed was keeping up, and finding the man hadn’t sped up as Kent had done, he slowed to allow his cousin to catch up. As he did, he glanced up again to discover there was a third rider gaining on them.

Ed caught him glancing and looked himself. “Who could that be, dressed all fancy?” The man, wearing a cocked hat of the like Kent had not seen anyone visiting Whitechapel wear, had noticed their slowing and had sped up so as to close their lead.

“Captain Chandler!” Ed greeted, amiably. “I did not realise you were joining us, after last night.” Chandler nodded, coming to ride besides Ed so that the man was sandwiched between the Captain and Kent. “Well, it’ll be good to have a third man, isn’t that right, dear cousin.”

“Third hand?” Chandler enquired, over Ed’s head to Kent. “Were you not riding to Bath?”

Kent faced the path ahead, refusing to give Chandler the satisfaction of a greeting. “You must have been mistaken, Captain. Before my sister, I must collect documents of importance from Mr. Buchan’s house, lest the rot get to them.” Despite his adamance, Kent could not help but feel satisfied by the queasy look that came across Chandler’s face.

“Oh. So your expedition…”

“Is to my house, yes, and then on to Bath,” Ed finished. “You’re welcome to join us for the journey if that was where you were heading?”

Chandler closed his eyes, too long to be a blink, but not long enough to have been considered a gesture of open rudeness. “Of course.” He gulped. “This rot would be the same… as you… ah… showed me last night?”

“Yes, I do apologise for that, by the way, I hadn’t realised you were the queasy sort, what with your accomplishments et cetera, but we’re all human, are we not?” Ed laughed, reaching out to pat Chandler on the arm. “Tell me, Captain, do you read?”

“I haven’t had much time for the hobby, I’m afraid. I used to enjoy it, at university.”

“Oh a University man, are we?”

“Theology at Cambridge, a long time ago.”

“Theology you say! Well, I am surprised Emerson had not mentioned that small fact to me previously.”

“It had never come up during the war, Edward.”

“Do you take an interest in the subject, Mr. Buchan?”

“When I’m not cleaning rot from my house, I am in fact a Vicar.”

“Not yet ordained,” Kent added, reprimanding. “I advise you to escape from the conversation as soon as you can, Captain, my cousin has a tendency to rant on his subject.”

“It’s been a while since i’ve been lectured, please, Mr. Buchan, carry on. What do you specialise in?”

Kent sighed, mimicking his cousin as Ed, full theatrics, turned to Chandler, eyes wide, grin wider, and splayed his hands. “Murder.” Ed had used the exact same motions all Kent’s life, from the first time Ed had discovered an interest in the history and philosophy behind the subject, to the countless religious men he had asked for opinions on what the Bible was quoted to say about it.

“Murder? That’s certainly an original topic of discussion. What enticed you into that?”

“Motive. The human psychology, the fear of god, the fear of the godless. Ah, I see a twinkle of light in your eye, Captain, have I intrigued you?”

“Psychology and theology working in tandem to analyse murder, it’s definitely an interesting approach. Had you heard of the Thames River Police, Mr. Buchan?”

“Only in passing, I believe I heard of their remarkable first year?”

“Indeed. To think any public enforcement service based on a French establishment would take off, and in London of all places.” Chandler smiled, awed. “I believe the Policing service is expanding, perhaps might even see the Government take an interest in funding it. Maybe one day they shall invite you to help them on their cases.”

Ed positively glowed with the praise, turning to grin at Kent. “I do think your good Captain is the first not to look at me as if I belong in an asylum, cousin.”

“Your love is in the research, Edward, you know that.” Kent’s words were sharp, sharp enough to distract himself from the build-up of pain in his leg.

“At least the Bow Street group or Thames Police might actually pay me for my pains…” Ed laughed, this time self-derogatory, and his good mood looked to falter. “ Perhaps, all the same, I should try my luck in London. I’ve no home here, anyway, and there must be a bounty of religious texts and histories of murder.”

“And what are the thief-takers to offer you besides a sword to the gut by one of those outlaws? Besides, you’ve barely run a day in your life, you’re hardly one for dashing after criminals.”

“Kent,” Chandler tried to interject, but he was interrupted by a thankful Ed. “No, Emerson is right. God and books are my passion, not petty-theft.” Ed’s smile, smaller now, faded completely at the sight of his house over the hill. “This is home.”

The Captain and Buchan jumped off of their horses, (Chandler noticeably more graceful than their companion,) but Kent felt nearly sick with the pain he had been ignoring during their ride. He hadn’t intended anyone but Ed to have witnessed his dismount, the shock of pain he would inevitably feel on jumping from such a height and jarring his hip, let alone the Captain, the one man in the world he had wished to keep the matter from.

But the longer he waited, the more curious the Captain got. He had no excuse to roam a field to avoid Chandler’s witnessing him, and try as he might, Kent would not be able to make the ride back home without a rest first. So he collected himself, slipping as slowly and casually as he could from his position. Sucking in a sharp breath, Kent saw white as he landed, managing to keep himself upright by clinging to his horse under the rouse of untangling himself.

He thought the entire act had gone smoothly until he looked up to see both Chandler and Buchan halfway to helping him, arms outstretched lest he fall. All three managed to clear their throats simultaneously, arms falling to sides and eyes skipping in different directions.

“Let’s go.” Kent said, forbidding anyone from asking whether he was okay. The next challenge was to walk towards the house without a limp, which was proving difficult. At least this way, at the front of the three, neither could see death-white pallor of his face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love writing as Buchan. This man, man.


	8. Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food and sentimentality.

Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, Chandler pressed the material over his mouth and nose, which both Ed and Kent discovered was a good idea, copying him with their own. It did not smell, as such, in the way a rotted corpse might, but the dull odour of dampness, a faint bogginess, once noticed could not be ignored, and was potentially dangerous.

Now that Kent knew what to look for, he could see the black spots out of the corner of his eyes, shadows he hadn’t cared to notice before. The wallpaper was peeling back, the wood of the ceilings sank just that slightly too much.

“You’ve been living here?” Chandler muttered, appalled, “and nobody noticed?”

Kent’s heart sank. He thought he was an observant man, he thought he was at least compassionate if not the kindest, but he hadn’t even noticed his own cousin’s  house’s disrepair. It was truly shameful. Ed went to poke at a couple of the bookshelves, inspecting the pages for pockmarks, and Chandler approached Kent as they watched. “I did not mean that as a personal attack,” Chandler said, sounding, at least, sincere.

“Of course you didn’t,” Kent replied, not nearly as nicely. “You look green, Captain. You should wait outside until we’ve collected what we need.” Chandler looked ready to decline, but as he shook his head he near-gagged, and that was the end of that. Kent watched as the man slunk out to wait in the mid-morning sun before going to help Ed.

-

The day Seaman Kent is promoted to Midshipman’s mate, he finally builds the confidence to ask the Lieutenant for that drink, long since promised. Chandler laughs and smiles, beckoning Kent in and grabbing two of his glasses from the sideboard, as well as a crystal decanter of golden liquid.

“You were promoted,” Chandler says, eyes crinkling in their corners. “You’ve done some good work, Kent.”

“Thank you Sir,” Kent beams, so proud of himself, happier than ever to have been complimented, complimented by his favourite person, and he’ll be damned if he has to pretend that he’s not been working hard just to curry Chandler’s favour. He’s not optimistic enough to think that he could court the man, but he could admire him, make Chandler feel as inspirational as Kent knew he was.

Chandler pours the drinks and chinks his glass with Kent’s as they knock the liquid back and more is poured. They both heave small, satisfied sighs at the taste, (Kent trying his hardest to swallow the alcohol without grimacing at the burn in his throat) and sit, opposite one another with Chandler’s desk in between.

“I always know we’re due back to shore when I reach this mark on the bottle,” Chandler grins, flicking the inch or so of liquor.

“I can’t remember drinking something other than rum,” Kent admitted. “I used to hate brandy, I cannot believe I now think of it as a welcome treat.”

“I do not miss my rum days,” Chandler laughed, pulling a face of disgust. “Grog is bad enough, even without thinking about what we are drinking twice a day. Have you seen the barrels of water before they’re cut with the lime and alcohol?”

Kent nodded, laughing into his glass and mimicking Chandler’s expression. “Part of initiation was being forced to eat the algae slime.”

“Oh God, that’s horrendous.” Chandler put down his glass, feigned disgust replaced with real. “Did you do it?”

Kent nodded again, mirthful smile playing on his lips. “It was the singularly most horrendous experience of my life. I assume you escaped the torment?”

“I’m afraid to say so, yes. Don’t get me wrong, as much as I’d have liked to have participated in that particular bonding exercise, I was given my own. I have had more urine on my person than I had ever wished for.” Kent gave him a sympathetic smile. He’d seen that particular initiation just the other day, the stray splashes too close for comfort.  

“I cannot wait for port,” Kent sighed, expectant. He loved the sea, but there was only so much rationing, humming and grog could do to a person. Not to mention the ongoing war. “A cup of hot tea and a slice of cake,” Kent imagined, even the prospect of it making him salivate. “With milk.”

“Port. Asparagus. Beetroot,” Chandler countered.

“Trifle. Syllabub. Iced cream.”

“Beef, rarebit, sweetbreads.”

Kent sipped his brandy, letting the warmth wash through him as he imagined. “This is almost too cruel,” he said, one-sided smile playing on his lips.  

“You have a sweet tooth?” Chandler asked, though his tone was rhetoric.

Kent smiled, shy. “Was it that obvious?” Chandler grinned and Kent melted in his seat. “Perhaps it is childish, to savour dessert to the game and the savoury dishes.”

“No it’s- endearing.”

Kent’s life flashed before his eyes. “Endearing, Sir?”

“Yes, I-” Chandler stammered, but sat a little bit straighter, determined. “Your company is a pleasant relief from the tedium of politics, and to the tragedy of war.” He rested his hands on his desk, one on the other, and Kent watched them. He wondered what kinds of hands the Lieutenant had; whether they were soft hands, used to write and to command, or if they were like Kent’s, had started off delicate only to be worn into parts of the ship, hard and strong of grip. “Forgive the sentimentality, but you yourself are just as sweet as your desserts.”

Sentimentality? Endearing? Kent- or Chandler- or both, he relented, must be intoxicated for this kind of vocabulary to work into their conversation. “Forgive me, that must have been too forward,” Chandler rushed when Kent hadn’t acknowledged the statements, nor given a reply. “I would not wish to lose your confidence over my hasty mouth.”

“No, Sir, not at all-” Kent, mind reeling, looked over his shoulder, paranoid despite knowing they were alone and could not be overheard. “Only I- am I to believe I am interpreting your words correctly?”

Both paused.

“I… I am a peculiar man, Kent, but if you would have me… I hope you do not think of this as an obligation to your superior. I am completely willing to be made the fool in this situation, and unless you feel the same, I shan’t exercise any power over you.” Chandler was hardly smiling now, having talked himself down. “You are more than welcome to walk out, now, and I shall take a position on a different ship as soon as we dock.”

Kent gaped. Chandler, Chandler had just openly admitted his affections to someone who could have reported him for committing ‘unnatural acts’. Chandler had literally put his life on the line to confess his feelings. This- this was a Capital offense, they were alluding to, and Chandler had wholeheartedly just-

“Sir-” The word was shocked, foremost, breathy and unbelieving. It had low notes of guilt, of illegal acts as of yet performed but thought about, it had high notes of joy, of having his feelings validated-

-

“Ah, here’s the pesky bugger!”

Kent dabbed his eye with his handkerchief, shocked at the vividity of his daydream, at how the pain lurched his heart. He managed to make it seem as if the smell of the room was causing his eyes to water, pulling an expression of illness.

“Emerson? You look ill, you should sit for a while. I told you that ride would put you out, come here.” The celebratory tone in Ed’s voice was quick to be replaced with worry, manhandling Kent into the nearest (and thankfully cleanest) chair.

“I’m fine.”

“Oh stop with your ‘i’m fine’s’, cousin, it’s frankly getting more tedious not worrying about you and seeing you do irrational, thoughtless acts of valour like this.” He went to his side-cabinet and took out a variety of bottles and boxes, using a spoon to stir a spoonful of white powder into a glass. “Here, drink this.”

“More of your Jesuit’s bark?” Kent sniffed the liquid, wine made slightly murky by the pain-killing powder. “This gave me a fever last time.”

“Ah but your leg didn’t hurt so much, did it?” Ed poured himself a glass of straight port. “Do you think the Captain will want one?”

Kent sighed, looking out of the window to watch Chandler communicating with one of the horses, feeding it a sugar cube and looking like he was talking to it. “Why don’t you go and ask him?”

He took a spiteful sip of the liquid, then swallowed angry gulps until it was gone, standing to pour himself another.

“Emerson…” Ed took the decanter away from him, putting back the stopper and eyeing the glass. “Is this going to be a problem again?” Again. After his return. To suddenly return to beverages that were not cut with alcohol, to be in so much pain, wine and champagne had been a welcome relief, a treat from rum-flavoured water, a medical remedy if anything. Then it had become a crutch, a problem in itself, and had spiralled for a year into anger, desperate emotion, a need to forget. A constant, temporary relief.

“I’m in pain, Edward,” Kent said, throwing Ed’s kindness back at him. “I need it to take the pain off of him-” Kent flinched, Ed’s face showing the man hadn’t missed his slip. Well it was out now, so why stop, it had been a large glass, drunk too quickly, and he could feel his inhibitions lowering. “Damn him, Ed! Damn him for coming back, damn Mansell, damn them all for making me like this!” He downed the dark, oxblood drink and handed back the glass. “Let’s go.”

Ed grabbed Kent’s sleeve. “Emerson, I think you need to calm down. You’re in no state to ride.” I can tell the Captain that I have to gather more documents while you rest.

Kent was in every mind to argue, he wanted to assert his dominance, his ability, he needed to show Ed that he was capable, but even through the wine and powder, his leg brought unwanted  tears to his eye at the slightest breath, the skin beneath his breeches feeling hot and red, more than definitely inflamed from his abuse. A lump was forming in his throat, preventing him from talking, so he nodded, slumping in the chair to show his submission.

Edward, obviously taken aback but pleased that Kent had calmed down, took the now empty glass to put on the table, patting Kent’s shoulder with his free hand. “I shall tell the Captain and will be back shortly. Try not to faint while i’m out.”

Kent snorted at the remark, giving Ed a small smile of appreciation that went a long way, causing Ed to cheer up greatly, almost physically exuding his warmth and cheer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though you should watch the "supersizers go..." series it's a documentary/ comedy series about what people ate in different periods.


	9. Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding, remembering.

“May I propose a break?” Chandler asked, for the fifth time, two hours into their onward journey. They should have nearly arrived in Bath, had they been at the pace they had taken on the journey to Ed’s house, but Chandler had cited his upset stomach as a cause for them to urge their horses into going at the slower, more comfortable gait.

Kent’s face decomposed nearly instantly, holding himself more upright, schooling himself into an indifference he’d let slip as the minutes of Ed’s lecture had trudged by into hours. “You read my mind,” Ed was quick to reply. Too quick, by Kent’s approximation, as if they had planned it. “I should have used the lavatory at our last break...”

A switch suddenly flicked in Kent’s mind. “Are you- you’re doing this for me.” He watched the two get down as he, for the fifth time, remained in the saddle. “We’ve been going at this intolerable pace because you think I can’t handle any faster?”

Chandler and Buchan shared a look that confirmed the fact, and Kent’s heart sank. “You know what’s worse than a four hour canter?” Buchan shook his head, taking the rhetorical question at base value. “A walk that, at this rate, will take us more than ten hours to complete!” Kent looked around, trying to remember the last road sign they had passed. “We can’t have travelled more than eight miles yet, if that.”

The two conferred looks again, Chandler taking a step towards Kent’s horse. “It’s not that we think you’re incapable,” he started, putting one hand on the horse’s rear to comfort it. “We were just thinking of your comfort.”

“We have thirty miles yet. I’m telling you now, if I have to suffer the consequences of this journey, I would prefer to do so before nightfall.”

Again with the look, Ed fiddled with his saddlebags and Chandler stroked the horse, thoughts distant. “Do as I say and we can make it in four hours.”

Kent sighed. “You have a plan?”

“We’ll canter for two miles, walk for one to let the horses rest, then trot a mile, canter one, walk, repeat. Doing so should take an approximate time of four hours fifteen minutes, and the horses should be able to sustain the rate for a more comfortable journey.” It was a well thought out plan. Kent couldn’t complain. It would be better than this, that was sure. He sighed, stroking his horse’s neck.

“Well now that that’s sorted, shall we take lunch, boys?” Ed produced a loaf of bread and a small wheel of cheese from his satchel. “Seeing as we won’t be stopping for another four hours, Emerson.” The question suddenly ceased being a question as both men turned to Kent.

“I’ll eat up here.”

“Oh don’t be so petulant,” Ed scoffed. “You won’t do yourself any favours, Emerson. Allow yourself this break, ten minutes if you will.”

Kent eyed the hard ground, starting to pull himself out of the saddle. He startled when a hand came to rest on his arm. “I don’t need your help, Captain,” Kent murmured, and Chandler took a step back, obliging but not happy as he watched Kent drag one leg over, steel himself and step down, jolting as feet landed on stone.

-

While Chandler had opted to refer to his engagement as with ‘Miss Emma’, Kent knew he could trust his sister’s discretion on the matter, especially since it had been her who had first pointed out ‘how sweet’ Kent was about his Lieutenant. Neither man’s parents were told of any arrangements.

Since their confessions that mellow evening, little had changed between the two, perhaps even getting more reserved, conversations shared with shy smiles that melted into expressions more akin to old married couples like the Miles’ than the other young lovers aboard the ship.

Chandler, it turned out, had a violin in his quarters, a gift he’d not had the heart to refuse, but an instrument he could not play. When Kent had not-so-subtly poured over the amazing quality of the thing, Chandler had removed it from its display cabinet and handed it to the eager man. “You can have it, if you would like.”

“Oh no, Sir, I couldn’t, it is worth far more than I could ever offer.”

Chandler had smiled, every pore amused by Kent’s sincerity. “I’m not selling it to you, Emerson, I would like you to have it.”

Kent had stroked the shining wood, reverent in his touch. “I…”

“You play?” Chandler asked, cutting off his protestations, stubborn words he knew Kent could keep up until he turned blue in the face. Kent nodded, shrugging one shoulder. “Will it trouble you if I asked you to play for me?”

Kent’s eyes had lit up, having not played for so long, when playing had been his greatest passion. “I might be rusty,” Kent warned, giving Chandler the chance to take back the near-priceless violin, to put it back in the case and forget the moment had happened.

“I can assure you I will greatly enjoy anything you play, no matter how rusty.”

“You place too much confidence in skills you cannot be sure I have, Sir,” Kent said, even as he was adopting his bow in one hand, other hand bringing the instrument up to his cheek.  

“You place too little confidence in how much I love you, Emerson.”

-

When Kent woke up, he couldn’t quite work out whether he was dreaming Chandler’s pale, worried face just above his, slightly blurry from the sleep in Kent’s eyes. “Emerson, thank God.” A warmth Kent now realised had been Chandler’s hand left his face, though the one keeping him stable hadn’t. Where exactly was he, if not dreaming? Horses, Bath, Erica- he sat up, spinning out of Chandler’s grip, attempting to stand, reeling and near falling back down on top the Captain, who looked like he’d cushioned Kent’s fall with his own body.

Which, now Kent thought about it, was probably what had happened. He must’ve fallen, face first, into Chandler, pushing him down into the dirt, before being turned on his side through his fainting fit. “You need to rest. Sit down, Emerson.” Kent bristled at the use of his first name, but he had just fainted on the man because of his stubbornness, he would allow himself a short break before attempting to get back on his horse. He was passed his meal, which, now it was sitting in front of him, became incredibly appetizing, the pain momentarily fleeting as hunger took reign of his brain.

Food devoured, Kent snuck looks at Chandler, who occasionally picked at his clothes, trying to pick at or brush off dirt, real and imaginary. “I’m sorry.” At Kent’s apology, Chandler’s hands balled into fists, as if he were preventing himself from an action he hadn’t realised he was doing.

“I would prefer you to be safe than my clothes clean,” Chandler replied, picking at his own meal with a knife and fork that definitely didn’t belong to Ed. Kent shook his head, biting the inside of his lip to stop himself from saying anything, but Chandler sucked his teeth anyway. “You honestly believe I would prefer to be clean than to let you fall, Emerson?”

“I do not blame you, Sir. I know how much you care for your personal hygiene.”

“Not as much as I care for-” Chandler stopped his angry retort with a click of his teeth, mouth pulling into a pinched frown. “Clothes can be washed, Kent.” He glanced at Buchan, who was trying to look like he wasn’t there. “Let’s move on. We must ride soon if we are to make it in any time.”

-

By the time they arrived at Bath, Kent honestly could not have cared less that Chandler helped him off of his horse. At this point, he cared little for appearances, and all but fell into the man’s arms, the strong muscles of a long-serving officer easily able to keep the frail Kent upright. The feeling like he was going to be sick at every movement had passed a good half-hour ago, and now Kent just felt numb, shaken, his mind a bright white heat.

There were voices, sometimes, asking him questions, but he frowned, they sounded like they were speaking from behind insulated walls, or like he was underwater. He didn’t complain when he was put in a warm bed, though he felt like there was something of pressing importance he needed to attend to. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning.

-

They had tried to kick Chandler out of Kent’s room as he slept through the night, especially Kent’s sister, who had taken one look at him and told him to leave, but it had gotten to the point where any person who loved the man was urged to spend at least a couple of hours with him, ‘just in case’.

Not long after falling unconscious, Kent had developed a fever, had vomited what little contents of his stomach he had left, and was shivering uncontrollably. He looked so weak, as the Miles’ and he crowded around his bed, with little to do but pray, and hope, watching for any kind of change they could document.

The physician had ruled that while the ride had no doubt been a major contributing factor, Kent must have had a previous infection that had used his exhaustion as leverage. “An infection such as one a fungi might have caused?” Chandler had asked, and while the physician had admitted he could not be sure at this stage, Ed and Chandler had looked between one another with a sense of dread.

Morning saw little improvement, Kents, Miles’ and Buchan swapping duty around a stalwart Chandler, who refused to leave the room for longer than it took to change clothes, wash his hands and return. Around noon, Kent’s fitful sleep dulled to something resembling peace, which momentarily hurt Chandler, hurt Chandler like nothing else, because after a night of tosses and turns and hyperventilating, the deep breaths were nearly invisible, Kent too close to a picture of death, and Chandler couldn’t let this happen a second time, not when nothing had changed between them.

He had not, as he had later discovered Kent had, loved on first sight. Kent had been a boy, one of the many on board, that Chandler had not payed attention to for what amounted to nearly three years. He still could not remember their first voyage together, despite racking his mind for precious memories of the man. Kent was seventeen when Chandler had first taken notice of him, two years of one-sided pining on Kent’s side to Chandler’s simple, platonic appreciation of his hard work. As Kent came into manhood, Chandler could not help but hear the men around him, suddenly taking a notice in their banal chatter to discover the base comments that he had ignored for years on end.

They talked of the shame it was for Kent to have been losing his boyish features, hardening into a lean, stout man, and that although he had not grown too much, he could still be considered tall among the stunted, malnourished-in-upbringing men. The sins they talked of, hanging offenses on land, Chandler had long-since grown accustomed to hearing, had never liked, but was near-impossible to prevent. These words though, the implied threat to Kent, these drew him out of his apathetic look on the practices aboard the ship.

Which, in turn, made him think about why he could not tolerate malintent on a warship, when directed at a certain crewmember. He had been on ships and in port towns for near on a decade of his life, he wasn’t new to the concept of gentlemen’s clubs of either gender, where women or men, depending on preference, scantily dressed in clothes of the orient, danced or performed favours for money, but Chandler had not felt the desire to visit either in his time.

A preference for desire, though illegal, was a simple concept to grasp, one that even the government could specify for documents and laws.  A preferential identity, however, was- harder. Society, family, expectations, all weighed heavily on scales opposed only by a liberal, fanciful declaration that love was love, no matter the person one loved. Inheritance, family name, bank credit, Rumour’s favourite foods.

He wondered, for hours on end with nothing but hard work to fill his time, whether his affections for Kent were as licentious as the other men’s, whether he purely appreciate the man for his looks, for something lustful. But Chandler, in his twenty seven years, had never wanted such a relationship from anyone, no gender, no person changing that, and it didn’t seem to be starting now, even with the development of his feelings for the younger man.

Kent had caught him scrubbing his hands with sea water once, and hadn’t asked questions. Hadn’t asked questions in a look, vocally, had just accepted that Chandler needed a clean source of water to wash his hands and had taken it upon himself to bring it, morning, noon and night, to Chandler’s door. He had watched Chandler count and recount rope, weapons, knots, men, had watched him light and relight candles, had watched him change clean clothes into cleaner ones, and had not asked. Had just handed him a new shirt, match, was on hand to help when Chandler entered one of his bad days.

Kent had washed Chandler when Chandler’s hands shook too much to hold a scrubbing cloth, Kent had calmly stripped Chandler of soaked material, had carefully sponged the enemy’s blood off of his skin, either silently or, laterally, with soft, calming words, nonsensical but grounding, safe, safe-

Chandler could not live without Kent, he had realised, as Kent sat opposite him, enthusing about trifles and syllabubs, entire face lit up with a smile. Chandler longed to put his hands through Kent’s hair, to tell him how his doe-like eyes were like constellations when they lit up, to tell Kent that he loved him. So he did, forgetting, perhaps purposefully, that whether Kent reciprocated or not, the relationship could never last. Not when his childless godfather, his adopted father, Admiral Anderson, remained childless, hopeful of Chandler taking up his name.

Chandler could not live without Kent, he told himself, as he watched him die in a bed in Bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to Graeliwil for the horse maths: 
> 
> walk 4mph 1mile= 15min | trot 8mph 1mile= 7.5min | canter 20mph 1mile= 3min 
> 
> walkingtotal= 2hrs 30min | trottingtotal= 1hr 15min | cantertotal= 30min


	10. Romances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matchmaking happens.

It’s almost a week until Kent wakes up for longer than a couple of crucial minutes. The handful of times he had regained consciousness, they had force fed him food and water, the man too weak to refuse. They tell him where he is, what has happened, but Kent doesn’t seem interested, more intent on asking why Chandler is there, and whether he is hallucinating. They feed him again and let him rest, confining him to bed, and that night is the first night in a week that Chandler sleeps for longer than three consecutive hours.

He’s not surprised to wake late, hearing laughing voices filter down the hall, children’s high-pitched joy mingling with emotional adults and- a croaky Kent. Kent is alive and Chandler lets his heart beat with pure, unadulterated happiness at just the thought.

He gets up, dresses slowly, carefully, and sits at his desk. He takes out paper, ink and blotter, writes a letter that he seals and leaves on his made bed, and then he slips out of the house.

-

“We’ve been invited to a ball.”

“Have fun.”

“Emerson, ‘we’ includes you, too.”

“I’m ill, Erica, I cannot handle a ball.”

Erica hit him, harder that was strictly necessary, leaving him rubbing his offended shoulder. “You’ve had a month to get over yourself, brother, a single night out shan’t kill you. You need to be out there, having fun, snagging eligible young ladies.”

“And I suppose Mansell will be there too?” Kent had spent the last month warding off the man from the household, acting as the house’s doorman, making sure the Miles’ did not let Erica out of their sight when they visited bathhouses. Kent had not left the house since he’d entered it, finding he could only walk for a couple of hours at a time at maximum, and needing the safety of closed doors to bar him from prying eyes.

“Of course not, brother. You told me to stay away from him, and so I have. I do trust you, you know.” Erica whacked him on the head, though this time with the invitation card and so dealing less damage. “Look at the pair of us, pining for grossly overrated lovers.”

Kent fell into his fort of pillows, picking up one of the novels he’d been enjoying lately in order to block her out of sight. “I’m not pining, Erica.”

“Ghosting around the house in sleep clothes and only eating desserts isn’t what constitutes as pining anymore?” Erica flicked his book. “Reading romances? Composing baleful, tragic piano pieces? Gazing out of windows and sighing?”

“My pieces are not tragic, Erica, they’re misunderstood. Damn the manufactured music of our generation.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Why did God grant me the most intolerable brother? Look, Emerson, your Captain has made his feelings clear in leaving without so much as a word. The sooner you go out, find a wife and bury your tragic soul under screaming children, the better.”

“I do not wish to marry a poor girl to hide myself, Erica.”

“And I do not wish to see you in the gallows for not.” Erica stood, walking around the bed towards the window. “The Miles’ and I, Buchan, Riley, we understand it must be hard for you, but people will talk, Emerson. And then people will talk about Liam and James’ homosexual brother, dowries for Charlotte will be half what she’s worth, if that.” Erica poured herself a glass of water. “It’s not fair, Emerson, none of it is, but that is how our country works. So you and your Captain will find wives, have children, meet up in gentlemen’s clubs if needs must, but this, this pining? It must stop.”

“Erica…”

“This is why I told you, eight years ago, to end it with that man. Look at you, Emerson. You were better, you were fine before he arrived, until he made you ride, we thought you were going to-” Erica choked up, slamming the glass on his bedside table to hide her vulnerability. “End it. Pretend, whatever, just- end it, Emerson.”

Emerson let his book close, plot and page number already forgotten. “When is the ball?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“Fine.” Kent made a note to burn the letter being used as a bookmark as soon as Erica left.  I’ll go.”

-

Kent was not keen on balls, had only ever been to a few in his life, but as Erica’s escort, he was finding that they were not as bad as they had seemed. In the month he had been at Bath, Erica had implored him to escort her on many occasion, but he had always feigned a minor injury or cough, just enough for Captain Miles to take the mantle as escort, but not enough for them to stay at home to pander to him.

It had been a small miracle that in that time, Mansell had not returned to pick up where he left off with Erica, that neither of them had had word of his even being in Bath, and so Kent was relatively light-hearted on his evening out. He danced with his sister, and with Judy, and with a couple of the Miles’ older lady friends and acquaintances, just enough so that he charmed them with his youthful smiles, and so that when younger ladies approached, he could claim that, unfortunately, an aunt held their place for his next dance.

Kent wondered at the magic of a family name, of the race against time to pick up a bachelor. God knew how he must look, dark bags weighing under his eyes, too thin from a lack of appetite, too pale from his infrequent walks in the sun, and yet, in the glow of the dancefloor, it seemed that everywhere he looked there was a young lady trying to catch his eye. At the end of the next dance, Erica fell besides him into a chair, grinning at him.

“That uncle of ours knows how to spin a girl around,” she laughed, shooting the elderly man another smile. “Come, brother, you’ve been out of the dances for too long, let’s find you a lady younger than eighty, shall we?” She attempted to haul him up, but as she reached to grab his hand, a man cleared his throat from behind them.

“Excuse me, miss, may I have the pleasure of your next dance?” A tall man with slicked back,  dark hair and a kind smile held out his hand, bowing slightly. “If your companion does not mind, of course?”

Kent shook his head, smiling in a way he hoped the man could not interpret as too gleeful. “Not at all. Enjoy your dance, sister.” He emphasised the last word and raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging. As she was taken away, Erica looked back to give him a wide-eyed beam.

Looking around, Kent spotted the Miles’ and went to join them, where he was greeted warmly and offered a glass of champagne. “Do you know who that man is?” Kent asked, inclining his head at where the man, in Navy uniform, was laughing at something Erica had said.

“That’d be the good Captain Casanove,” Miles said, smile in his voice. “Good man, came to power very young, certainly beat me out of position for a promotion more than once.”

“Is he married?” Kent asked, and it seemed to have been the right question, judging by Judy and Ray’s small smiles. “He’s a bachelor?” The man was middle-aged, Kent supposed, no older than fifty by his still dark hair, perhaps late thirties. Slightly older than Chandler, then. When he danced, though, he seemed twenty years younger, could pass as a man younger than Kent if one didn’t look too closely. And he was smiling as if he’d never seen something as wondrous as Erica in his life.

“Rich too,” Miles said, under his breath with just enough good humour not to sound menacing. “Got his own manor up north, plenty of town-houses here and in London…”

“He wouldn’t want Whitechapel,” Kent finished, his own smile returning. It would be the perfect match. A good, rich Captain with no problematic rumours. Perhaps Bath wasn’t such a wretched place after all.

-

Leaving Casanove and Erica to talk, Kent had made his way to the gaming tables, knowing he would not be able to stand for much longer, and feeling more comfortable away from the predatory glances of mothers and daughters alike. His luck was on his side, tonight, for though he was not winning great amounts, neither was he losing them, the men on his table all polite, playing more for the entertainment than for the profits. It was relaxed, friendly, men dropping in and out with only a couple of shillings difference lining their pockets.

There was a faint tinkling of piano in the far corner of the room, and a couple of young wives giggling around the player, but other than that there was only the comforting sound of murmured conversations between men, reminding Kent of his years aboard ship and warming him with a nostalgia that didn’t come naturally to him.

About two hours after he’d sat at the same table, breathing the smells of tobacco and fine sherry, a hand was placed on Kent’s shoulder, old and delicate, the fingers bony, the nails sharpened talons. “Oh Captain, here’s a man you absolutely must meet.” Another aunt, Kent thought, turning with a smile only to see Chandler’s horrified face. “Captain Chandler, Emerson Kent.”

Kent nodded, this time opting for a “We’re acquainted, thank you,” in return for Chandler’s small nod. Kent gulped, turning to the lady who had introduced them.

“Lady Iver?” He asked, confused, “Surely you of all people know that the Captain is staying with us down at Whitechapel?”

A wicked glint lit in the lady’s eyes, but she only smiled a small, old woman’s smile, as if she had truly forgotten. “Oh deary me, that’s right. How could I have forgotten. It’s the age, you know.” She patted his shoulder and bumbled off into a sudden crowd of people Kent had not noticed before, stranding Chandler at the table and leaving Kent to stare off after her.

“I thought you had left town.” Kent said, looking up at the man so as to feign friendly conversation, but not meeting his eye.

“...Did you read my letter?” Kent did not reply, and so Chandler decided to change tactics. “I did not realise you were out of the house. Are you well?” He sounded like he was asking about the weather, dismissive, itching to leave the room.

“Yes, thank you. And yourself?”

Chandler nodded, then frowned. “The Lady has had me dancing with her daughter, a Miss Mina Norroy?”

Kent knew the girl, had visited her on occasion as they grew up. He supposed she was a tolerable match for Chandler, if he so desired. They would match up perfectly, they both had that air of haughtiness that, when inspected, was just veiled defensiveness. They would make an iron couple, efficient, no nonsense. Their children would be beautiful. “Perhaps we are to be family after all,” Kent said, smiling a smile that barely scraped the ice-cold hardness from his eyes. “My cousin is a wonderful lady.”

“She is,” Chandler said, honestly, “She is pleasant company among a crowd such as this.”

If there was much more of Kent’s heart left to stab, Chandler had once again hit the bullseye. He glanced behind Chandler, as if he could see Norroy from where he was sat. “Perhaps you should return to her, lest another man win her affections.”

“That was not my intention-”

One of the men at the table made a grumbling comment, not angry by the interruption, but getting bored by how long Kent was taking to talk. “Sorry, Captain, another time, perhaps.” He nodded tersely and turned back to the game, playing the first move he thought of so that he looked completely engrossed in the game. When he looked back, minutes later, Chandler had disappeared. It was not the first time his heart had broken that month, nor, he realised, would it be the last.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately none of the promised matchmaking was successful.


	11. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no willpower and i'll probably just upload the rest of the fic now.

“Has anyone seen Erica?” Kent looked about the dim room, where Miles was teaching the boys a card game and Judy was feeding Charlotte. They all looked up, looked at one another and shook their heads.

“I thought she was with you, dear,” Judy said, smiling. “I haven’t seen her since this morning, I assumed she was upstairs reading.”

Miles glanced at the clock and frowned. “It’s getting late for her to be out, is it not?” It was nearing seven. “Did she have another ball to attend?”

Kent shook his head. They had returned home early this morning from last night’s ball, and he had assumed they had mutually decided tonight they would stay at home.

“Not that I know of?” Judy agreed, saying that she would have heard about it if there was a ball worth going to, and all three of them felt pits growing inside them.

“Where did she say she was going, when she left this morning?”

“Out- oh, oh to the walking rooms or some such... blast I cannot remember,” Judy bounced Charlotte in her arms, closing her eyes to help her memory.

“She said she was going to meet her friend,” Liam cooed in a school-boy voice. “Her male friend, the one with the oily hair and the nose like a bird.”

“Now that’s not nice,” Judy chastised.

“Well that’s what Em told us!” Liam complained, hooking both of his brothers into the story.

“Oi, both of you, upstairs, now.” Miles glared at the boys until they picked themselves up, sulking away to their bedrooms.

“Casanove,” Kent whispered, barely registering James and Liam’s departure. “Do you know where he’s currently lodged?”

The Miles’ turned to one another, searching each other’s eyes for information. When both drew a blank, they paled further. “Damn and blast, how could I have been so careless,” Miles gritted, standing violently and turning towards the wall, helpless, hands balled into fists.

“She may yet still be safe,” Kent said, hoping he would believe the words if he said them himself. “Would any of your associates know where to get information about him? A Captain or some such?”

Both had visibly paled to ghostly white complexions, even in the golden, flickering light of the fire, both biting their bottom lips in a synchronicity that was at most times charming and endearing, but now just instilled a new urgency within Kent.

There was a knock on the parlour door and they all startled, Kent doing so again when a stone-faced Chandler was lead in by one of the apartment’s housekeepers. “Captain Chandler,” Miles greeted, glumness overriding his usual cheer at meeting the man. “You’ve come at an unfortunate time, I’m afraid. I’ll have to ask you to return at a later date…” Miles trailed off at Chandler’s pained huff of air, as if a confirmation of his fears. “...You know about our situation?”

Chandler nodded, taking a moment to eye Kent, warily, before returning his attention to the older Captain. “I’m afraid my fears have turned out for the worst.”

“Fears?” Judy asked, taking a hold of Miles’ hand, which her husband patted, resting his second hand on top of the joined pair.

Chandler nodded, hands folded behind his back. “Last night, I noticed that your daughter was engaged in conversation with Captain Casanove. At first I could not remember him, had only met him briefly before, and from the way he was… engaging with her, I let my guard drop.” Kent noticed that though Chandler was facing the Miles’, he couldn’t seem to meet their eye, focusing on a point just below. “It was incredibly foolish of me, no apology could make up for the situation.” He grimaced.

“It was only after I left… after my conversation with Emerson, that I recalled where I had seen him before…” Chandler cast Kent an imploring look, begging his forgiveness even before punching his final blow, a conclusion that Kent could feel building. “And yet even then I let my insecurities overthrow me, I could not… would not leave my house until now, and I fear that I, you, Erica must have to pay the consequences.” Chandler was biting his lip with a ferocity that Kent knew would mean he had to be drawing blood.

Chandler raised his eyes from the floor, taking a half step away from the Miles’ and towards Kent. “I- I vowed I would never let these men hurt you again, Emerson, I cannot apologise enough- I have failed you again-”

Kent shook his head, what little colour he could muster draining from his face. “No-” Not again, he thought that this was over, had been over for years, “No, no, you must be mistaken-” he could feel the scars burn as if they were fresh, his weak knees weakening, his hands trembling with fear, anger, necessity-

“-I had not realised their influence had stretched so far, he was a Captain, in direct command under my godfather,” Chandler excused, desperate to be understood. “I had only seen them communicating that once, I thought they were business partners, nothing more,”

With a shock, Kent saw a flash of Casanove, onboard their ship, shaking Chandler’s hand with that disarming, beautiful smile, complimenting, easy to talk with, easy to like, not even a lover’s jealousy could be felt for him, he made you respect him, made you like him, let him talk you into doing as he ‘advised’.

-

Kent had been helping Chandler wash his back when there was a knock on the door and their conversation stopped immediately. They had prepared for situations like this, and they jumped into action, Kent re-outfitting himself in his uniform, drying off his hands and adopting a stack of towels while Chandler pulled on his shirt, not hesitating to pour the water he’d been using to scrub himself with over his head, as if he’d been caught by the storm raging above deck.

“Will you get the door, please, Kent?” Chander asked, louder than necessary, and feigning a chill to his voice he’d had when he’d previously been soaked to the bone by the weather.

“Aye, Sir.”

Kent had unbolted the door, his features open but rushed, as if his tasks were already keeping him busy without this interruption. “Fitzgerald, McCormack?”

The two men, dressed in their recently issued officer’s uniforms, had their weapons cocked, aimed at Kent’s head even as he was opening the door. Panic bubbling, Kent attempted to step back, out of range, but McCormack was quicker, grabbing his arm and pulling Kent towards him, lowering his gun in order to get a tighter grip on the squirming Kent.

McCormack was a larger man, had power, and the deadlock he held Kent in proved unbreakable, even with Kent’s developed muscles.

“Kent?” Chandler asked, his voice pleasant and telling he could not see the situation from where he was stood, towelling his hair dry. When there was no reply, there was a slightly more wary repetition. “...Kent? Is everything quite all right?”

“Sir -- Get down!” Kent managed to choke-

-

“-Emerson darling, what is the Captain talking about?” Judy was looking between the pair standing before her. When Kent frowned, stomach near emptying and lump in his throat, Chandler placed a hand on his elbow, a small comfort, grounding him. Kent didn’t know where to start, he didn’t know how to explain this secret to his parents-

-

Kent heard the sound of a safety being released from within the room, quickly followed by two, much louder, from behind his head. “Don’t, sir! They’re armed!” Kent got a bash to the back of his head for his outburst, dazing him. Not heeding his warnings, Chandler emerged into Kent’s swimming vision, gun ready, scowl fixed.

“What’s going on here, officers?”

Kent heard Fitzgerald’s derisive snigger, could hear the smirk on his face as he let out a brusque “Put your weapon down, Sir,” pressing his musket ever closer to Kent’s temple, close enough now that he could feel the cold of the metal biting at his skin.

“Not until you lower yours, Officer. Must I remind you that I am your direct superior?” Chandler drew nearer, setting his shoulders, and Kent relished the fact that Fitzgerald winced despite himself.

“Fitzgerald,” McCormack griped, “Cap’n said not to involve the ‘tenant.”

“‘think he’s already plenty involved in other people’s affairs, ain’t that right?” Kent was jostled by the man, nearly tripping over because of the rough push at his shoulder. “Ain’t right to play favourites, mister Chandler, ‘specially not with the young’uns, sends all of us old folk the wrong kind of messages.”

“I can assure you that that was never my intention…”

“Oh’s that right, sir? ‘cos that’s not what it looks like to us,” the two of them barely needed to incline their heads to show they weren’t in the least bit fooled by Kent and Chandler’s facade.

“Word has it there’s mutiny on board, and you know what sailors are like, Sir.” McCormack, unlike Fitzgerald, didn’t seem quite so pleased with his role, but his grip was firm even if his voice was not. “Loyal to a fault.”

-

Chandler, meeting Kent’s eye, sent him a request, asking whether now was the right time for him to tell the Miles’ the truth. Kent could only nod his reply, and Chandler needed little more to continue. “The Krays were… a group of traitors. They had infiltrated the Navy during the war, hoping to wreak havoc, influencing sailors with threats of violence...”

-

“If it’s the mutinous you’re looking for, then let Kent go, he has had nothing to do with it, it’s me who’s attempting to overthrow Kray.”

“What a vision of humanity we got here,” Fitzgerald laughed, but his humour was short lived as McCormack hustled past him, dragging Kent up the stairs and leaving Fitzgerald to fend for himself.

“Not quite so entertaining when you’re not outnumbering your opponent are you?”

“Oh we outnumber you, don’t you worry, Sir. Captain Kray and the boys’ve got everyone in line, we’re a force to be reckonin’ with.” Fitzgerald spun his musket onto his back, out of his way, before taking out a flick knife instead, the glint of the rough, nasty steel reflecting in his bloodshot, tired eyes. This was just one of many men on-board who had seen too much in too few years, Chandler knew.

He could see that the man was not evil, though he might relish the power that came with anarchy, he was not cold-blooded, and so Chandler placed his own gun on a nearby table. In lieu, he raised his fists, remembering his boxing defences, only to be snorted at by Fitzgerald. “You think your uniform’s barricade enough for me knife, Lieutenant?”

“Not at all, officer,” Chandler said seriously, bouncing slightly on his heels. “I simply have it on good authority that you cannot hurt me.”

“Nobody said nothing ‘bout not hurting you,” Fitzgerald grinned, slashing a warning cut in the air between them. His second attack was far from pulled, and weighed down by his wet clothes, limbs cold from the chill below deck, Chandler was landed with a gash that started to bleed into his sleeve. He winced, but refused to let the injury slow him, not daring to lower his arms. He managed to pack an uppercut between Fitzgerald’s full-body slashes, then another to the man’s stomach, but in return this meant he was soon littered with small cuts, creating more and more openings in his defence.  

It wasn’t long before Fitzgerald had him kneeling below him, knife pressed to his neck. “I bet this is how you and your boy spend your evenings, ey, Sir.” Fitzgerald leaned in close, foul breath clogging Chandler’s nose. “You lords and ladies lot think you’re all so much better than us hard-workers, but we ain’t all that different. Men’s got their needs, no matter where they were born.”

“Our relationship is not as base as you seem to think.”

“Rumour is he’s wearing your good old father’s ring.”

“And I have a lock of his hair in a pendant, does this mean we engage in premarital intercourse?”

“Premarital?” Fitzgerald repeated, bewildered. “There ain’t no postmarital intercourse neither, ‘cos you ain’t getting married, not in King and God’s country.”

“Perhaps not in the eyes of the law,” Chandler admitted. He and Kent had discussed this, and neither were fazed by the consequences. Neither had family names to ruin, not directly at least, when godfathers and adopted guardians could easily be disinherited, and neither had siblings that had reputations to maintain. They could live their lives quietly, discreetly, lovingly. “You know a thing or two about acting outside the law, do you not, Officer?”

Fitzgerald gave him a generous kick to the stomach, the pain from Chandler’s wounds flaring. He needed to save Kent from whatever these men were attempting, he needed to protect him. “Free Kent, take me instead.”

“I think we both know I can’t do that.”

As if planned, a too-familiar voice, one that usually added coal to Chandler’s heart, warmed him on cold days, cried out, peals of pain rippling down to Chandler,

“Kent!” Chandler shouted, bursting to his feet, scrabbling to the door. Before he could make it, there was heavy impact to the back of his head, and his body collapsed on itself.

-

“Infiltrated the Navy?” Judy repeated, turning to Miles. “Did you know of this?”

Miles’ shoulders had slumped, shadows ghosting his eyes. “Aye, a long time ago.” He stroked his thumb over the back of Judy’s. “When I was just a kid, our Liam’s age, me father introduced me to his Admiral, this Jonathan Kray’s father. Thought nothink of it ‘til I found out they were a band of crooks, the worst kind, the real violent sort.”

Kent watched as Miles’ grip on Judy tightened. He paused, his lips tight and thin, a harshness in his eyes that Kent had never seen before, a harshness that only revealed itself in times of true, unadulterated fear. Something snapped then, clicked into place in Miles’s mind. His gaze dragged from the carpet up to Kent’s face and he sat back, as if the few inches might save him from the reality. “The Krays- it was they who harmed you?”

-

Chandler felt the knees of his breeches rip as the material caught on the planking, dragged up deck by two men hauling him on either side by his armpits. His head hung, and he felt the hot trickle of blood as it made its way through his hair and down the back of his shirt. The storm was calming now, no longer threatening to tip the vessel over, but the waves were still high, the rain a cold wall of water.

He was dumped at the ship’s wheel, alongside the equally drenched and collapsed bodies of other members he recognised as those who had not been promoted under Kray

“Well now, boys.” There was the sharp click of heeled boots across the deck, clear even in the drowning rain, as Kray paced before them. “We all know why we’re here, so let’s not dally, shall we?”

Kent was dragged out and dropped before them, a lifeless lump, and Chandler felt his heart crack, a desolation ripping through him. He pulled himself forwards, towards Kent, panting heavily, his eyes burning and chest heaving, rolling the man over, checking for life. He was too cold, in his thin uniform instead of his sailor’s gear, and drenched as he was, but he was breathing, shallow rasps maybe, but breathing, alive. Chandler touched a hand to Kent’s cheek, caring little for appearances, not now, not here, not at what was probably going to be his last moments on earth.

Kent’s skin was an icy blue, his body not even strong enough to shiver, and Chandler was finding it hard to keep the smaller man in his arms, his own hands locked with the cold, unable to keep a handle on the slippery surfaces. Chander turned Kent so that the man was fully facing him, and found the air punched out of him. The previously crisp, pale coloured trousers were wet with blood, stained a full, rich colour.

The injury was crude and jagged, stripes that puckered the skin from Kent’s lower back  to his thighs. “Captain,” Chandler pleaded, searching out the man from the crowd and grins circling them. “Captain please, he’s injured, he shall die if you leave him like this-” Chandler’s voice caught and he let out a half-sob. “Let me tend to his injuries and then we can fight, you can kill me if you wish but please, he’s still young, he didn’t know any better than to follow me-!”

-

Kent bit his lip. “They took me by surprise. Rushed me against a wall. I couldn’t even fight back.”

-

“You know, you’re admirable, Lieutenant. Here I thought you’d be saying anything to join my side, let Kent here off the hook for your allegiance.” Kray pulled at the top of his trousers before crouching next to them, Chandler clinging Kent closer, out of the man’s reach.

“You’ve declared war on me, Sir.” Chandler kept a hand on Kent’s head, fingers tangling in the blood-clotted hair. “Let me tend to him, and then we may have a fair fight.”

Kray mulled it over, head cocked slightly to one side as though reading a business merger, then a smile split his face in two, a child-like glee tainted by an adult’s insanity. “You have yourself a deal. Officers, let Kent and the Lieutenant through to the medical quarters.”

Chandler felt like he’d never breathed a better breath of air in his life.

-

“Emerson.... Emerson, please…” The voice was heady, muffled, and Kent felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was suffocating. He came to reality slowly, eyes screw shut, face pressed against a too-hard surface, the only warmth a hand through his hair that stilled as he stirred.

“Sir?” Kent asked, recognising the dank, bitter smells of the room as that of the surgeon’s quarter’s.

“Thank God.”

A flood of memory pooled at the front of Kent’s thoughts and he jolted up, turning to assess Chandler. “Sir! Are you okay? Your head is bleeding!” Too late, Kent’s memories of his own slashing came back to him and he heaved as pain doubled him over into Chandler’s arms.

“Emerson listen, I have little time, you must listen to me.” Once Chandler was sure Kent was able to listen to him, he continued. “I will keep Kray and the men distracted.”

Kent started to shake his head in refusal, but Chandler held his face by his chin, stilling him in order to look him in the eye. “Emerson, I need you to recover as quick as you can. I have managed to convince the Captain to focus his intentions on myself. While he is busy, you must take the opportunity to discover damning evidence, anything that could hold in court.”

“There are so many of them,” Kent tried, pleading. “He won’t let you free mercilessly-”

“He hurt you, Emerson. The time for mercy is past.”

“Damn your romanticism, Joe!” Kent could barely breathe, let alone talk, his voice wet with tearful anger. “You’re going to get yourself killed because of this pigheadedness!”

“Rest, Kent.” Chandler straightened away from Kent’s grasp. “Find out as much as you can.”

-

“The man… is a Kray?” Judy asked, tone begging someone to disagree. “This Casanove?”

Chandler nodded, reluctant to acquiesce.

“You do not know where to find him,” Miles concluded, reading Chandler’s shuttered, solemn face.

“But I have associates searching for him. If they find any trace of your daughter, you shall be notified immediately.” Neither Miles’ nor Kent felt relief at this, but it helped, Kent could admit.

“Unless,” Chandler added, and Kent felt a chill to the room, the Chandler he recognised as the one he had fallen in love with replaced by the Chandler that had arrived at Whitechapel, “You kept in touch with any of the members of the crew.”

“Me?” Kent asked, taken aback by the question. “Why would I have done anything of the sort?”

Chandler looked tired at the question, as if Kent were attempting to keep up a ruse long since exposed. “Of course.” Chandler gave Kent an approximation of a smile.

“They’ll have gone to Brighton,” Kent said into the silence, shrugging off Chandler’s comment. “Or be travelling up North. Not as far as Scotland, Erica could not be convinced of that, but Lincolnshire, maybe.” If they had left as soon as Erica had gone out this morning, they might already be halfway to Brighton.

“I shall go to Lincoln,” the Captain said, standing. “I shall arrange for a horse immediately.”

“Then I shall attempt Brighton,” Kent reasoned.

“You shall do no such thing!” Judy said, gripping Kent’s hand with hers as he passed to get to the door. “In your condition you shall do nothing but help me here.”

“I cannot sit around here while my sister is being kept hostage by a Kray!”

“Emerson,” Judy chastised. “You barely made it the forty miles from Somersetshire, and yet you wish to insist on the hundreds of miles, two day ride to Brighton?” She dropped his hand, and Kent felt the loss of touch like a burn. “You will kill yourself before you see Reading.”

“Emerson, please, do not worry your mother further by attempting to harm yourself. What would you sister think if you were to harm yourself in trying to bring her back? She would blame herself for any injury done to yourself out of sheer stubbornness.”

“I shall go to Brighton,” Chandler said, before bowing. “I pray for speedy information for your daughter. Captain, Lady, Kent.” With this, Chandler excused himself, letting himself out of the house.

Kent bit his bottom lip, tears welling. He was useless, again, when he was needed most, when the person he cared for most of all was in danger, he could do nothing to prevent wrong. He hated this, this life, a life in which he could not be true to his emotions, could not do right for his family, a world in which he had been crippled, physically, emotionally, his heavy heart fragile.

-

It was foolish, Chandler had realised as he left the room, to expect any detective activity on Kent’s part with his injuries. He wished he could go back into the room and retract his request, but he was already pressed for time, and he would have plenty of time for talking with Kent once the incident was sorted.

He would just have to elicit Kray into a fight and then, Chandler knew, he could shamelessly use his connections to have Kray thrown out of the force for assaulting a man of great importance. It would not endear many men towards his favour, but he needed to get the man out of a position of power, as soon as possible.

Soon he found himself back on top deck, circled by a ring of men, leaving a clearing for a brawl. “One on one, Kray, a duel. No weapons.”

Kray laughed, but dropped his gun, kicking it so the metal skidded over to the side of the ship. “I accept your terms, Chandler.”

Chandler nodded and removed his shirt, not wanting to be weighed down by the still-sodden material, and Kray did the same. Kray’s first few punches hit their mark, hard, pushing Chandler back against the crowd only to have them shove him back at Kray, straight into another punch to the stomach, or to the jaw. The most he could do in the onslaught was remember to block, divert the hits as best he could, save his quickly dwindling strength-

The ship lurched, and caught unawares, both men tripped, falling to the wooden planking. Chandler managed to pick himself up first and used the opportunity to pin Kray down, to slam his head against the ground. It felt good, even as Kray started to laugh, to bubble bloody spit.

There was the click of a gun and Chandler stopped, looked around. One of the men had taken up Kray’s weapon and was pointing it at him. McCormack. “Step off, now, Lieutenant,” he said, gun shaking. “If you kill him, we’re all dead. All our families too.”

A hostage situation. Chandler let Kray’s semi-conscious body fall out of his grip and he held his hands up in surrender. “I can help you, officer. All of you. Put the gun down, and I can organise protection for you all.” Making sure Kray was out, Chandler stood, approaching McCormack. “We can make this easy, it’s McCormack, isn’t it? You have a wife and two girls.”

McCormack nodded, but his gun still trailed Chandler’s heart, eyes darting from Chandler to Kray and back. “My father is Admiral Anderson, if you help me, we can get this man in jail, and all of your families will be protected as thanks for your help in the investigation.”

McCormack’s gun was shaking more violently, and tears sprung in his eyes. “You’ll help us? After we- we joined him- we let him do terrible-” McCormack’s eyes jumped from Chandler to behind him, and Chandler watched the raw panic snap on his face before he could turn around and witness the scene himself.

Dukes was standing over Kray’s body with a bloodied knife.

Dukes was Kray’s second-in-command, his businessman, but also an informant, Chandler thought, a double agent. Whose allegiance did the man truly have? Dukes shrugged, as if answering Chandler’s questions, and wiped the knife off on the corpse’s trousers.

Killing Kray meant the Kray gang would want vengeance. They would come after those who did not protect their leader, they would come after Dukes himself- there was the sound of a shot, too loud, too near, and Dukes crumpled to the floor, the bullet blowing straight through his head.

Chandler turned, slowly, ears ringing, to where an increasingly panicked McCormack still held the smoking gun, watching as the rain watered the two men’s blood across the deck. There was silence, now, no cheering as there had been in the fight, no angry murmuring as there had been at McCormack’s stunt, ...silence.

McCormack dropped the gun, his shoulders slumped, and took slow steps backwards, away from his crimes, away from Chandler, soon hitting the bulwark. There was a horrendous pause as McCormack shook his head, hands pressed against the side, still unable to look away from the bodies.

“You did nothing wrong, officer, just come away, we’ll be at port tomorrow, you can see your family soon-” Chandler watched as McCormack turned and-

McCormack jumped into the icy void of the ocean. Chandler knew no shout of his, no man-overboard could save him, but he ran to look over the side, hoping for some miracle to have saved him, even as he imagined the crack of the man’s body hitting the water and sinking down into the depths.

“You know it was your boy, Kent what we used as a spy, right?” Fitzgerald leered, or tried to, around his gulp. The officer was the first to join him at the bulwark, then the first to avert his eyes from the blackness of the sea.  

“An officer just-”

“That’s why McCormack got all uppity, said he ain’t got no balls after Kray turned on our own man.”

“He had a family! Children!” Chandler exclaimed, hope sapping. If all were as fearful as McCormack, there would be little crew left to sail the ship back to shore. He could not believe for a second this man’s words about Kent, instead he focused on trying to rally the crew around him.“You must see the hope in this situation! We have taken the ringleaders, all of you may sleep in peace now!” Chandler pushed past Fitzgerald, spotting a familiar face. “Mansell, isn’t it? You’re young, new to the Navy, surely you can see you have more to live for than for this organisation-”

Mansell did not get to reply as Fitzgerald spoke up, again, voice louder as he found the gun dropped by the two men before him “Y’know, twas a pity about Kent, he always was eager to do as commanded, to please you every which way…”

Chandler saw a flash of Kent’s smile, eyes cast down, timid, as if he shouldn’t dare, but couldn’t help being so happy. Fitzgerald was lying...

“How else would we have got in your office, Your Greatness? You with your locked doors and your private baths-” a moment to revel in Chandler’s public exposure- “Oh we all know about your little escapades, don’t we boys. Think you hid it well, didn’t ya. Well Kenty gave us the full rundown-”

Chandler’s punch was hard enough to knock several teeth from Fitzgerald’s mouth.

Of everyone, Chandler wished the spy hadn’t been Kent.

-

If Kent thought he could move within hours of his wounds being stitched, he was greatly mistaken. On pain medication that consisted of little more than the liberal application of alcohol to his open wound, the shock of the day combined with the pain knocked him out until what turned out to be three days later.

The ship had docked, and Chandler was nowhere to be seen. Kent had woken in a port inn’s bed with a letter explaining that he had been discharged from service, and that if he wanted to be taken back home, he would have to take this letter to the Captain of a vessel leaving port in another couple of days.

Attached to it had been one from his lieutenant, who briefly informed him that the Krays had been taken down, and that no member scared into joining the gang would have to fear being reprimanded, only those who had actively participated. It said nothing personal.

When Kent had arrived back home, with little more than these dismissive letters, his sister had reconciled him with assurance that Chandler would send him letters when not under scrutiny by the law. Kent had learnt not to expect anything. He wished he had been stronger, had not disappointed Chandler, had managed to get that information for him.

 

 


	12. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epistolary is a word I hate.

“Emerson, you have a letter!” Riley had been sent for the day before, a woman of strength needed in their time of turmoil, setting the lot of them straight, and making sure none of the members of the Miles family acted out. “Doesn’t look like either of your Captains’ handwritings, but might be important, Sir.”

Kent ripped through the wax seal, eyes skipping straight to the bottom of the letter where the sender had signed his name. “Mansell?” Kent gritted his teeth, he did not want to have to deal with the man, not now, but there might be something in the letter, any hint of Erica’s presence.

‘I hope you do not find my sending this letter an offence, but I have a matter of great importance to relate to you. I have recently taken up residence in the town of Brighton, and on attending a ball last night, I was shocked to find your sister, attached to the man known as ‘Captain Casanove.’

‘There are rumours as to their marriage, and I wished to confirm whether this was true: especially so soon after my own departure from Bath. Please know that I shall not approach the lady of my own volition, as were Chandler’s terms, but Casanove is notorious, my good friend, and I do not wish to see your sister harmed.’

Kent read through the letter twice before he allowed Riley to take it for herself. “What’s all this about his and Chandler’s ‘terms’?” Riley asked, and Kent shook his head, not knowing himself. Then something dawned on him about the conversation they had had not three nights before, about how Chandler had said he had ‘let his guard drop’ around Erica. Casting his mind back to the ‘almost miraculous’ fact that Mansell had left, without fuss, even without Kent’s interference… had Chandler been protecting Erica? Acting as her escort when Kent could not?

Mansell seemed to think Kent had been a part of the plot, and was open about it, meaning it was likely Mansell had not been bribed, but had honestly left of his own accord, not wanting to offend Erica’s family more than they had been by his presence.

This could all be a ruse, a part of Kent’s mind told him, Mansell could easily be feigning sincerity in order to lull them into a false sense of security. But why? As far as the Kray gang knew, the Miles’ still thought of Casanove kindly, news of an elopement would not endear Mansell to them.

Kent ripped the letter in two.

“Emerson!” Riley cried out, having to bend to the floor to pick up the torn pieces. “What was that for?”

“He’s a known liar. He’s more than likely to be making the whole tale up, and Erica has been taken across the channel. I do not need more falsities in my life.”

“Oh you,” Riley slammed the pieces on the side table beside Kent. “You stubborn child! Look at this. This man may have been a cad in previous years, but are you going to ignore a lead as to your sister’s whereabouts because of that?”

“Chandler has been in Bath for days with no news of the couple.”

“And your Captain is known for sending frequent letters?”

“Why must everyone  insist on referring to the man as ‘mine’?”

“You are insufferable!” Riley reached into the material covering her breast, underneath her apron, apparently a handy storage compartment, and brought out a letter. “Dearest Emmerson,” Riley read, “I am glad beyond words at your swift recovery. I can only apologise at having to leave so soon after you have awoken, and before I get the chance to see your face again. I am writing this letter because I must tell you, even if I cannot do so face to face, how sorry I am to have been stubborn enough not to have turned us around after our stop at Mr. Buchan’s lodgings, how blind I was as to your pain. A pain that was ultimately my own fault. It seems that every time I enter your life-”

“Stop.” Kent said the words forcibly. “Where did you get that?”

“It was in your coat pocket, and I needed to wash your coat. I was making sure it wasn’t an important one before I threw it out.”

Kent regretted his not burning the letter as soon as he’d vowed on doing so. “It was unopened the last time I checked, Riley. Are you opening my letters now?”

“Looks like someone has to, Mr. Kent. Is this the letter you let everyone to believe the Captain had not left?”

“It did not seem important,” Kent muttered, averting his eyes.

“Shall I continue reading, Sir?” There was a silence. “I’m taking one blink to mean yes, two to also mean yes, so here we go… Blah blah, It seems that…  enter your life,” Riley paraphrased, “Every time I enter your life, I also seem to hurt you, more irreparably than before, and though you may not say so, it seems as if your heart has hardened to me long ago.

“I shall be attending many of the balls while you rest in order to look out for our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Mansell, and if you find that perhaps your heart has not hardened as much as you had thought, and, of course, you are well enough to attend, it would be my pleasure to meet you there.

“Please take care of yourself, etcetera etcetera, undying love, kisses, signed your’s affectionately, the Captain.”

“Riley, will you fetch me writing materials?” Kent asked, and the equipment was brought to him post haste.

“You’re gonna reply to him? After all that malarky?”

“I must reply to Captain Mansell, and send Captain Chandler directions to Mansell’s address.”

“If you don’t end your own letter in your confession I shan’t send it.”

“One day I won’t hesitate to fire you for you insubordination, Riley.”

Riley laughed.

-

‘Dearest brother,

I am safe. Inform our parents I shall be returning with both Captains Mansell and Chandler as soon as possible.

Yours, Erica’

-

Erica and entourage arrived mid afternoon the next day, without fuss and pomp, with barely any notice. Kent, sat at the window, was the first to see them arrive, the door open and welcoming them before they could take a foot on the front path.

Mansell made a pleased but astonished noise. “You were right.”

“Hush, Finlay. Of course I was right, I’m his sister.”

“Right about what?”

“They were betting on how long it would take you to open the door,” Chandler said, emerging with both Erica’s and the two Captain’s luggage.

“Oh.” Kent may have been thankful that Mansell had had Erica’s location, but he was still allowed to be wary, barring the door to him. “Thank you both for your assistance, I’m sure you’re tired from your journey.”

Chandler and Mansell looked between one another and nodded. “Mansell will be staying in my apartments if you have need to reach him,” Chandler said, addressing Erica. “Good day to you both. Regards to your family.” Mansell smiled, hopeful, before the two men backtracked to their carriage.

“Now that was hardly necessary,” Erica said after the door had closed, giving her final farewell wave out of the window. “Poor men, dismissed without so much as an offer of tea for their pains.”

“Erica, what were you thinking?!” Erica winced but remained smiling. “Eloping with a man you had just met? Did he hurt you? Did you….?”

“He told me we were just going on a daytrip, Emerson. That we would be back before dinner. Then we arrived in Brighton and I thought, what could be the harm in just staying a couple of days? I wanted to have fun, Em, I’m nearly twenty eight and haven’t had a day to myself since we were children!”

“The world isn’t safe enough for fun days out without an escort.”

Erica bared her teeth, rounding on Kent. “Some of us don’t get the chance to go to war, to see the world, some of us have to sew, and paint, and laugh at boring old men’s jokes.”

“I would prefer that to your- your going off and getting kidnapped? Injured, even!”

“At least for you it would be a choice!”

The twins turned from one another, fuming.

“...Did you know he was a Kray?”

“Not until Mr. Chandler warned me. Mansell had his suspicions, tried his best to make sure I was never alone with him without tipping him off.”

“And?”

“And, we danced. He bought me clothes. We parted in the evenings. I stayed with friends, female, in their lodgings.”

Kent released his caught breath, finding reassurance in Erica’s anger, her strength even in her times of weakness. He encompassed her in an embrace.  “Please, Erica, never do that again.”

“I wouldn’t have returned if it wasn’t for your Captain,” she said into his hair, holding him up just as much as embracing him back. “You’d better send him your thanks.”

“What could he have done to make you do anything?”

“He…” Erica’s facade of steadfastness cracked, and the first look of vulnerability crossed her features. “Chandler offered Casanove a great sum of money in return for leaving the country. Needless to say, by morning, he had taken the offer and disappeared.”

“Anyone could have done the same-”

“No, Em, I mean a great deal. More than could buy Whitechapel.”

“...what?”

“And on our return, he was saying it was about a quarter of his fortunes. Mansell has said he would help subsidise it, but Chandler outright refused.”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

Erica laughed, near bursting Kent’s eardrum before she could push him away. She wiped away a tear, one she would claim was drawn from her laughter. “Brother, I apologise for what I have said about the Captain before, and retract any bad word I may have said against him. Your Joseph is an angel.”

-

A few days after Erica’s return, Miles received a letter from the Admiral, who stated that he had greatly appreciated his stay at Whitechapel, but had found himself re-posted, and no longer needed the property. Instead, Chandler would be the key renter. In celebration of the Admiral’s departure, he wished to hold a ball at Whitechapel, no expenses barred, and that the Miles’, Kents, and Chandler should return as soon as possible to attend.

 

 


	13. Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone ships it.

Chandler stood slightly taller as Miles approached him, scanning the ballroom as if he was taking an active interest in it. “Look to your liberty, Captain.” Miles joked, his voice all good cheer.

“Why, is it being attacked?” Chandler replied, in good faith, but hinting at his want to be left alone.

“I do believe that young lady has been trying to meet your eye for the last hour of this ball. Her name’s Morgan Lamb, if you should need introducing.”

“Perhaps there is a reason she has not met it, Miles.”

“Oh go on, a little fun shan’t hurt you. After all the excitement of the last few days, I should say you deserve to dance with a young lady.”

“I do not dance, Sir.”

“You do not dance, or you do not dance with young ladies?” Miles asked, managing to keep his face the picture of innocence. Chandler supposed the question, come from any man but he, could have been a threat of great importance, but here, Chandler could just snort. “I do not dance, Sir.”

“Well, that may be, but we can’t have you standing in your great hall looking the picture of misery.”

“I’m not miserable, I can assure you. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone, though. I can leave if you would like…?”

“Nonsense. It’s your house, you can look like you want.”

“Listen, Miles, I had been meaning to tell you something. Now that my godparents have left, I have no need of the place.”

Miles’ expression crashed. “Oh, is that so. Aye, aye, we knew this wasn’t a permanent solution, of course, we were just hoping for a couple more years to get some funds. I suppose we’ll just have to… sell the place.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Sir. I- well, I find living in large houses hard on myself, and so have mind to buy myself a property, small, besides the coast. Easy to clean. I will keep on Whitechapel, keep renting it, but in my absence, I would need someone… perhaps a family… to mind it.”

“Captain…”

“And then, once your family has money enough to clear your debts and I am released from my lease, I will happily leave to live full time in my other home.”

“I cannot let you think of owning a property such as Whitechapel and not live in it, the costs would be obscene!”

Chandler shrugged. “I doubt I shall ever have an heir, Captain Miles. All the money I have, I have to spend, and I would like to do so on you and yours. Think about it, and without your pride in the way.”

“Oh, mister Chandler!” He and Miles were practically barrelled into by the impeccably dressed Ed, whose grin was wider than usual, his smile readier since Erica’s return. “Or should I say Captain? Or maybe just Joseph!”

“Chandler is fine,” he said, his smile faintly amused, mostly concerned that Buchan might have had slightly too much to drink.

“Chandler it is then!” Ed shook his hand, clinging a little too tight, then saluted Miles. “Oh! I must, must introduce you to one of my greatest and dearest friends!” Buchan turned on the spot, inspecting everyone in the room for the one he was searching for. “Ah there she is! Miss Lamb!” He called, bustling off towards her with Chandler in tow.

“Think on my offer,” Chandler managed to convey to a still-disbelieving Miles.

“Miss Lamb,” Buchan gave Chandler’s hand to Morgan, “Captain Chandler!” Both bowed, Chandler trying not to let it show that he had been actively avoiding meeting the lady’s eye the entirety of the wedding.

“Morgan here is a great friend of mine, and an avid reader of the field! After our conversation on that disastrous ride, Chandler, I have been dying to introduce the two of you. I think you have much in common!”

“Morgan Lamb,” the lady introduced, as if her name hadn’t been yelled across the great hall. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Edward has made quite the fuss about you over the years.”

Not for the first time, Chandler had the feeling like his reputation could only precede him in the worst of ways. “Nothing too bad, I hope?” he asked, attempting to work out whether the lady had been trying to make him come to talk with her because of his general, rich-bachelor reputation or because of the reputation Ed had given her.

“Oh, only the most scandalous tales,” Morgan laughed, and Chandler could not help but to catch her infectious smile. Chandler attempted to reply, but was cut off by Ed grasping his arm and leaning in close.

“Do you think that lady is looking at me?” Chandler glanced at where Ed was inclining his head and found Miss Norroy attempting to join a group of loud ladies in conversation directly opposite them.

“I- I fear not, Mr. Buchan.”

“Oh- well of course, of course I knew she wasn’t looking at myself, I was merely joking, you see, trying to catch your attention so as to inform you that she might have taken an interest in you…” Ed grinned, and Chandler found he had to look away from the desperation in Ed’s eyes.

“That was very good of you, Ed, thank you.”

“Oh! You’re very welcome, Mr. Chandler!”

“You… may call me Joseph if you would like,” Chandler said, already regretting it.

But then the face Buchan gave him rectified the feeling, if only for now. Looking pleased as anything, Buchan made his excuses, saying he had to find his dear mother before he acquired a new step-father. “Farewell, Morgan, Joseph.”

“That was very kind of you,” Morgan said, soft smile glowing after Buchan.

Chandler shook his head. “Guilt hardly constitutes a kind act, Miss Lamb. I may have done the decent thing, but it was not kind. I practically bribed his embarrassment with a promise of friendship.”

“You do not wish to become friends with him?”

“I feel as if i’m obliged to be friends with him in order to become closer with... “ Chandler stopped, cleared his throat. “With one of his associates.” He glanced at Lamb, hoping the lady would not see his slightly panicked flush.

She seemed to have other ideas, catching his eye and schooling a grin. “I apologise, I always seem to have a way of making people talk about things they had not meant to say.”

“That seems like a useful gift.”

“Useful, lonely, not many people find they can talk with someone who knows when they are lying.” Her grin was cheeky as she held out her hand. “Will you dance with me, Captain?”

“I- I don’t suppose I have much of a choice?” Chandler asked, sighing slightly. He hoped no word of this would return to Kent, though with his disastrous luck, he doubted the possibilities of this happening.

And, as if on cue, Chandler watched as two heads of curled brown hair entered the room, both twins’ eyes latching onto the hand he had in his own. Chandler sighed, wishing just once he could have a situation turn out in his favour.

“Buchan mentioned your interest in Philosophy?” Lamb asked, directing his gaze from the doorway to her face.

“I- yes. I gather your own focus is on human nature?” Chandler asked, attempting to make the best of the situation. He tried to look politely interested, his smile just genuine enough not to offend the lady, but hard enough not to elicit the wrong idea in Kent’s mind.

“Quite, and on motive, as Buchan is quite fond of calling it. Why humans do as they do, and whether our actions are complicit with the Bible’s teachings.”

Many a time, Chandler had been accused of not picking up on the subtle social cues of the period, from looks to fan signals to cutlery placed in a certain manner, but even he could recognise that it was not only he who was distracted throughout their danced conversation. The topic was relatively heavy for such a light-hearted dance, but Chandler found he kept following Lamb’s eyes to where the intelligent blond Norroy was stood, eying them back.

So Buchan’s comments had not gone unnoticed? The air between the two seemed tense, and Chandler wanted, more than anything, to clear the air of rivalry between the two ladies, before they could fight over a ‘prize’ that neither could, metaphorically (and, it dawned on Chandler, physically,) take home at the end of the match.

Instead, he focused on trying not to shoot the same looks at Kent, who had taken to either sipping sourly at his glass, or laughing with Erica as if they had never had such a great time in their life.

The song was reaching its crescendo now, and voices could barely be heard over instruments, the dancer’s steps and the laughter filling the room, necessitating partners to practically shout in one another’s ears in order to communicate their thoughts. Thankfully their rather exposing, hard-hitting debate of up-and-coming philosophers had settled for now, and Chandler and Lamb spent the majority of their second dance without conversation, until Morgan hinted that next time their arms hooked, she would be saying something. Chandler braced himself, having found in the last few minutes that the lady was quite the comedian.

“You and he deserve one another.”

How Lamb had timed the comment with their division, Lamb twirled off by some other man, a stray brunette in a lacey dress thrown into Chandler’s own arms, he did not know, as his eyes trailed off after her laughing body. He himself grew cold. How obvious did one have to be about one’s affections for all but the object of said affections to realise?

By the time he and Lamb were next joined, the last notes were already playing, the time for private conversation passed. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I was promised to Mr. Buchan for the next dance,” Lamb smiled, sweetly, as if she had not just devastated him. Chandler had little time to recover, however, as his arm was instantly taken up by another lady.

“Miss Norroy,” he greeted, overwhelmed. “A pleasure meeting you again.”

“And you, Captain. Was that Miss Lamb I saw you with?”

“Are you acquainted?” Chandler asked, wondering if this was a sour thing to ask.

“Oh yes, quite, we are the best of friends,” Norroy said, not a drop of sincerity in her voice. “Will you dance, Captain? Lady Iver has been quite on my back about the whole business since the last ball we attended.”

Resigned to his fate, Chandler stifled his reluctant heave, instead putting on a smile and offering his hand, the one whose attached elbow did not currently have a resident, to her.

Chandler and Norroy’s dances were alike Lamb’s in seriousness, and in the interest Chandler took in it, fully engrossed until he caught snapshots of Kent. Then, his focus weaned, and he was spending more time watching Kent tell his sister a story than looking at Norroy.

Their conversation about the necessity of loyalty and order in the world was cut short by Norroy’s laughing at Chandler’s third “Excuse me, I didn’t catch that,” replying with a raised eyebrow and a quick  ‘you are suited to one another.’

Norroy, however, had not timed her statement quite as well as Lamb, and Chandler had enough time to ask her what her intentions were. “Only good will, Captain,” she had laughed, tightly, eyeing someone (he assumed Kent,) over his shoulder.

Then he was released for a couple of songs, pretending to be taking a drink when in fact he was watching Kent over the rim of his glass and wondering why he could not just ask the man he loved to dance with him. He was pulled, ruefully, out of his daydream of the pair of them skittering about the room, by a hand to the crook of his arm and a small “Captain?”

“Oh, Miss Lamb, did you find Mr. Buchan?”

“That I did, and you found Miss Norroy, it seems.” In the brief amount of time Chandler had known Morgan, he had not seen the lady speak with such venom. “Did you enjoy your dance?”

“Yes, thank you,” Chandler said, honestly, knowing better than to lie to the woman. “Just as much as my dance with yourself, in fact. I find that my worldviews correspond quite startlingly well that those of yours and Miss Norroy’s.”

“Interesting,” Morgan blew off, breezily, and yet looking as if she was rapt in conversation with him, eyes large and eyelashes blinking.

“Miss Lamb?” Chandler asked, getting too many assorted messages to handle. “You seemed adamant, earlier, in your recognition of my more… particular romantic escapades?”

“Hm? Oh, right, I do apologise, it’s-”

“Miss Lamb, Captain Chandler.”

The two ladies, it seemed, could not help but to interject one another as Norroy entered the conversation, Norroy pointing out fellow ball-goer’s faults, and Lamb adding or amending with her observations on her whats and whys.

It was incredibly odd to watch as Norroy, a lady whose attitude and mannerisms mirrored his own, was being corrected on points he might have brought up himself, and he could imagine in another world, he might have found either, or possibly even both of the ladies marriageable. As it was, their snappy retorts were overwhelming, reminding him too much of a well-oiled machine, a married couple used to one another’s-

“I seem to have been used as the middleman in a highly irregular romance,” he commented, watching the two ladies fall silent with a quiet sense of victory. “You also make a good match,” he continued, as the two swayed that little bit further away from one another, too aware their proximity.

“In fact, I am rather jealous that I may not show my affections as openly as you without wayward comments.” He realised the two ladies could very much walk hand in hand down through the town centre, perhaps even cohabit a house alone, without a hint of a rumour of ‘unnatural relations’. Such was the way, Chandler regretfully realised, of the life of a lady in a world dominated by men who only cared for their own sex’s importance. What news was there in two spinsters, who could inherit very little, occupying one another’s company?

“You must not give up hope, Sir,” Lamb said, a hand on Chandler’s arm. “Times are sure to change, if not sooner, then later. Stay true to yourself.”

Morgan Lamb and Mina Norroy. They made a beautiful couple.

-

Chandler had worked up the courage, after the ball, to pursue Kent. Afterall, if that many of his associates gave him their blessing, there would have to be some reason.

He had woken early in the morning, potentially too early to have much of an excuse for being downstairs, but was, unfortunately, found first by Mr. Buchan. “Joseph! What a pleasant surprise! What are you doing up and about so early?”

“Oh, I- was just, checking up on the family. Erica is okay?”

“More than okay, she was proposed to last night, after you’d retired. We’re having the wedding within a week! Your godfather has offered to pay for the lot, saying something about prosperity under his advice? Nobody was quite sure what he was talking about.”

Chandler raised an eyebrow, but had no idea how to interpret the man’s words himself: maybe Anderson felt that his reputation could only improve by funding so many lavish events within only one week. “My congratulations to the bride and groom.”

“You’re invited, of course, and we could probably use a man of your intelligence to head our organisation. Judy is amazing of course, but Miles was running around the place like a headless chicken, and dear Emerson is pandering to her an obscene amount. If the three of them are left to their own devices, as they were last night, I fear your family is to be left with nothing!”

“I would be honoured to help, though I know little of weddings.” Chandler couldn’t remember ever being to one. The last events of such scale he’d been to were funerals.

“I’m sure you’ll cope,” Buchan grinned. “Now what was it you were really awake for?”

“...Do you know where Emerson is? I would like to discuss something with him.”

“Ah- yes,” Chandler distrusted Buchan’s smile, a suspicious shade of cunning colouring it. “You’ll find him in the gardens. You might have to wait a while, but he’ll be there.”

Chandler gave his thanks, and was followed out back by calls of “Find me in the library after you’ve finished with him!”

Unnerved by the advice but powering through it, Chandler strolled across the grass, not finding the man he wanted on first glance, and so deciding to wait on a stone bench, to enjoy the warmth of the sun, the smell of freshly cut grass.

As he waited and no Kent emerged, he found himself picking at the small flowers growing in clusters next to the bench, mostly weeds, though pretty- There was a splash as he picked another purple-petalled flower and he looked up-

And gawped-

The reason Chandler had not seen Kent was because he had not been looking at the large pond, the pond in which Kent seemed to be swimming- his shirt wet, clinging to his less-frail-than-before body. Chandler could see the lines of his muscles, muscles he was glad to see Kent had regained this last year, ones barely perceivable through clothing were definitely there when looking at him like this-

Kent hadn’t seen him, not yet, and Chandler’s own muscles froze him to his seat, needing to see this, needing to see Kent able to take care of himself, his arms strong, his legs powerful, Kent looking- well.

Kent had stopped at the near end of the pond, whether his exercise done, Chandler didn’t know, and stretched, only to pause mid-doing so and let his limbs fall to his side. So he’d seen Chandler, then.

Kent shook off some of the water before stepping out and towards Chandler. “Captain.” Kent greeted, pulling at the material of his shirt in an attempt to make it so that it didn’t cling quite so close when left alone. “Why, are you… Hm.” Kent came to a stop. “Good morning.”

“I’m sorry to have- watched, without your permission.”

“The gardens are barely off-limits to you,” Kent said, wringing some of the water out. It said something, Chandler noted in the back of his mind, that he did not find the action as disturbing as he might have done previously. It was pond-water, barely the cleanest of waters, and Kent was barefoot, turning the soil underfoot into mud, and there were spots of green algae on his shirt, but he was so beautiful. His hair hung in resolute curls despite the drenching, his hands rested on his hips in defiant expectation, and Chandler could feel all intelligent thought leaving him.

“That may be so but I should not have spied-” Chandler shifted on his feet.

“Did you need me for something? I must bathe and get dressed.”

“I- No, it’s not urgent. Mr. Buchan is expecting me in the library, perhaps I shall see you later. At lunch.” Chandler turned and fled without confirmation, the ultimate in cowardice. What could resolution do when one was faced with that sight?

He and Buchan were occupied in the library throughout lunch, Riley entering a few hours later to offer them some leftovers, and by the time Buchan had run out of interesting things to talk about for the day, Chandler had decided he had had enough conversation to last him a week.

Finding a stray novel, probably one of Erica’s, he allowed himself a few hours of relaxation, letting the story of a young lady in love wash over him. At some point, he had remembered the flowers he’d hastily plucked in his pocket, and, not wanting to waste their beauty, he pressed them using a few pages of the book. He would take them out later and properly press them into one of his own books.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WET SHIRT SCENE - TICK  
> SURPRISE GAYS - TICK


	14. Analogy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends.

“I never thanked you for saving Erica.” It was a rare day when both Kent and Chandler found themselves in the library, without Buchan’s hovering presence.

“There is no need,” Chandler said, looking up from his latest adventure into the romantic-centric novel. He was getting quite attached to the characters of Austen. “In fact, if I had acted faster, she might never have left with the man.”

“But you acted when you could, and you… you spent fortunes we could never repay in protecting her from him.”

Chandler closed his book. “Money seems to be the only thing I am good for.” 

“I did not intend to suggest-”

“When I remembered who he was,” Chandler said, cutting Kent off, “I was in my room, and I couldn’t- I had to blow out the candles and relight them for hours. Each time, I had to make sure that they were truly out, that I had done so properly. All the while, all I could picture was Erica lying like you had been, striped, bleeding out.” Chandler sighed. “I had to break the candles. Cut the wicks. Anyone would think I was mad. ...perhaps I am.”

“Perhaps,” Kent agreed, slowly. “But then, you managed. You dealt with the situation. You were stressed, and you had to do as your mind directed, and then you still saved her.”

“Sometimes I cannot do so. Cannot manage.”

“None of us can be perfect all of the time. It would be terrifying if you could.”

“...”

“When I first got back to Whitechapel,” Kent said, turning in his seat to address his monologue at the window, “I used to sit in here, or in the study, mostly by myself. Erica would be upstairs with the children, Miles at sea, Judy about her own business. I liked the quiet, after not having had any silence aboard, it was pleasant to have one’s own company.” Chandler nodded, knowing the feeling. He would sit in his own room from time to time, relishing the solitude.

“It was sunny, for a couple of weeks, good weather for sitting, napping, recuperating. And then the rain. It started to get darker earlier. The pain would mean I would nap while it was still bright out and awake to a pitch-black room.” Kent clutched his book closer to himself. “Sometimes I would wake up, facing the window as I am now, knowing I had heard someone knocking, or had whistled, to catch my attention. More than once, I saw men, Kray’s men, McCormack, Fitzgerald, Dukes, sometimes even Mansell, standing there, watching me.”

Kent broke his contact with the windowpane, facing Chandler. “I thought I was going insane, I thought- I don’t know what I thought. It was intolerable. Soon it would be everywhere, every time I looked over my shoulder, whenever I was in bed, eventually Erica would notice, ask me what I was looking at. She would try to tell me everything was fine, but it wasn’t that easy, I hated being told it was fine, because I relied on her too much, couldn’t handle the situation if she was out of the room.” 

“But you got better?”

Kent shook his head. “I still look over my shoulder. I just, I find it helps to ask myself what I’m looking for. To tell myself the answers so I can focus on the questions. Otherwise you’re just… lost, in your own thoughts, without an anchor. Like a ship caught in a storm.” 

“What questions do you ask yourself?”

“Who it is I think i’ve seen, where they could be hiding. I go through it all, methodical, checking every corner. Then I can calm down, and it’s gradually got… easier. To know where to look, to know that I’m imagining the bogeyman.”

“...Do you think that could help me?”

“I don’t know, Sir. We’re different people. Our minds do not work the same way.” There was a knock on the door and their pensive mood shattered.

“Lunch, gentlemen.”

It was possibly the most civil ending to a conversation they had shared in the last year. The pair walked to lunch together in conversation, commenting on how well Charlotte was growing up, how tall Liam was getting.

They were smiling as they sat, opposite one another, at the table, and the rest of lunch was much the same. 

-

The preparations for the wedding weren’t as hectic as Buchan had promised. Judy had contacts pretty much everywhere, and with twenty seven years to prepare, Erica knew exactly how she wanted her wedding. Mansell had been, (to Kent’s appreciation,) a man of joy and excitement every time he had visited until the day itself, and Kent had not felt the desire to punch the man in the face at all in their reintroduction, which was definitely a good thing.

He hadn’t even needed to take Mansell aside for a man-to-man, Mansell approaching him himself and pouring out his regrets about his past, how he had been a disgust even to himself, but that Erica had changed all of that. Erica had saved him, was his angel of salvation. Mansell had told him his days of fooling about had ended the second he had fallen for his sister. 

Mansell’s family had come for the event, as had Miles and Judy’s, and what little remained of those who knew the Kent’s’ parents. Added to this were the Iver’s, the three Captain’s associates, and three quarters of the nearby village. It was big, it was loud, and it was beautiful. 

-

“Would you care to take a walk with me, Mr. Kent?” The wedding had for the most part started to wind down, most of their guests having taken their leave, dusk descending. 

“Mr. Kent, am I now?” Kent asked, wary. It was formal, for sure, but it also stripped him of being a naval officer, if there was any title left to strip. He allowed Chandler to lead him outside, through the gardens, in silence, until their conversation resumed again.

“With your sister having become Mrs. Mansell, there is less confusion as to which Kent I am referring to.” 

“Wouldn’t want any of your friends thinking you were talking to Emma, would we?” Kent had thought they’d gotten over this rivalry they had, had thought the tension had softened. Thought he had a chance.

“I could not hide my affection for you.” Kent scoffed at that. “I needed an excuse,” Chandler continued, “As to why I was so enamoured.”

“I seem to remember you hid it fairly well after you left.”

“You were a Kray spy, was I supposed to ignore that? Let my… my affections for you cloud my vision? You were taking me for a fool.”

“I- excuse me?” Kent blinked, the sudden development completely halting his brain function.

“Fitzgerald told me of your plots, of your… stories. He told me how you would regale them with tales of my…” Chandler’s fingers curled into fists, shaking. He couldn’t meet Kent’s eye, not now. “...Illness.” 

“Me?” Kent asked, confused beyond belief at this sudden accusation. “How could you ever- even- suggest such a thing?” 

Chandler had prepared himself for years for this moment, prepared his anger, his heart-break, his betrayal but- but Kent looked liked the accusations had projected the same emotions upon him. Kent looked angry, heart-broken… betrayed. “...you were the spy.” It wasn’t quite a question, not yet.

“Is that-” mind racing, Kent was connecting the dots: his dismissal without a reason, the first letter stating that non-active Kray participants would not be hanged for their crimes, the lack of a second letter, Chandler’s asking whether Kent knew the Kray’s activities after Erica’s kidnapping- “You thought I betrayed you all these years?”

“Didn’t you?” Chandler asked, voice weak, tired, tired beyond belief. They stopped, beside the property’s pond, what little light in the sky reflecting off of the surface.

“I couldn’t have hurt you on purpose if I tried.” Kent squinted at Chandler, unbelieving that such an intelligent man could have been deceived such. “I loved you, Sir, more than I loved my family, myself; the Krays had nothing to buy my loyalties with.” Both of them looked down, facing the gravel path between them.

“I fear we’ve been incredible fools, Mr. Kent.”

There was a bout of laughter from the mansion and both started, small jolts that then made them both aware that they had been so on edge. 

“Shall we continue our walk?” Kent asked, one hand running through his curls.

They continued in silence, both needing the time to organise their thoughts. Reaching the end of the garden, they approached a small footbridge that spanned the pond, little more than a few beams, and only taking a few strides to cross, which they did now, their pace leisurely, as if they had all of the time in the world. 

When they’d crossed, Chandler turned to Kent again. “If I haven’t been obvious enough for you, Kent, I would like to try again. Afresh. With all of our… past, all of this, behind us.” 

“We can’t. You know we can’t.”

“Your sister has married an eligible Captain of great repute, who has his own estate and marries her without necessitating a dowry.”

“And Liam? James? Charlotte?”

Chandler felt victory nearing. “I have been in conversation with your father. I am gifting him Whitechapel to take care of until he can pay his debts to Lady Iver. Your brothers and youngest sister have their estate and their fortune, they have Mansell, and- and if you would allow it, mine.”

“But that’s not-”

“Enough?” Chandler finished for him. “Emerson it is enough to stop people from talking. We can live in peace, your whole family can live in peace, and we will be doing no wrong, not by Law, nor by God, not when our relationship is as it is.” 

Chandler placed his hand on Kent’s upper arm, thumb stroking the material. “I love you, Kent. Most ardently. I do not need your reply immediately, I will wait for you to think upon the matter in your own time...”

“Yes.”

Chandler frowned. It hadn’t been a simple yes or no answer, the word could mean potentially thousands of things- 

“I love you too.”

“You- You do?”

“Do you ever get the feeling, Mr. Chandler, that a surprising amount of people take an active interest in telling you that certain others have affections for you, seemingly everyone but the object of your affections themself?”

“That has been a startling trend, I do concur.”

“It has suddenly occurred to me, after years of fretting over what rumours would spread about us, that, were I to announce my affections for you, people would be more likely to sigh than to throw me to the gallows.” Kent marvelled at his freedom of speech, and found he could not stop. “Every person I talk to seems to have known of my loving you, and yet here I stand,” he said, standing in front of Chandler, so close, in a public area anyone could stumble upon, “with you, sounding surprised that I return your affections .”

“I could not even dare hope that you may feel the same way.” 

“You have not shown your devotion this last year, I thought I loved one-sidedly again.” 

“Never again.” Chandler took Kent’s hands into his own, pressed a small kiss on his knuckles. “You will not regret this decision?” Chandler asked, cautious despite himself.

“You have given me ample reason to believe in you, Sir. But what of your godfather? Will he not be mad?”

“Mad, probably, yes, and disinherit me too. Potentially even have me discharged from the Navy.” Chandler smiled. “Whatever shall I do, with no family name, nor naval position behind me? Who will want to marry me then?”

“Probably some poor old spinster, likely one with a crippling disability and little to their name but a violin.”

“You kept it? The violin?”

“It was one of the only objects left with me in the Inn. Even I could not destroy such a masterpiece purely out of anger towards you.”

“Then- then we shall purchase a house, close to here, near your family, and fill it with music.”

“You will get bored.” Kent shook his head at Chandler’s starting to deny. “We will get bored.”

“Perhaps a house in London, too, then. With Mr. Buchan, if we must. We could join the Bow Street Runners.”

“That would be hell,” Kent grinned, loving the idea. And with Buchan, it would seem like three men sparse on funds were cohabiting out of necessity. “With a second home in the countryside for escape.”

“Like Hades and Persephone.”

Kent laughed at that, prying apart their hands and holding up a finger to show it was only momentary. He reached into his satchel, pulling out the first novel of Chandler’s adventure into Whitechapel’s library. “Was this you?” Kent asked, opening the front cover, carefully, tilting it up so that Chandler could see where, on the page, a dried, flattened bunch of purple flowers were pressed.

“Oh- I- I apologise, I had meant to remove them when I had finished the book.” Chandler flushed, heart picking up at how Kent looked so pleased. He supposed the man had just found Chandler pressed flowers in the front cover of Pride and Prejudice.

“I take this as evidence as to your being Persephone in this analogy,” Kent said, resolutely, a hint of childlike teasing honeying his words, just as they had done in their youth. There was a sparkle in Kent’s eye, a part of the moon residing him, and Chandler knew he could never let Kent leave again.

“I seem to remember the goddess was known for keeping her flowers alive, not killing them.” Chandler picked up the bunch, twirling them to look at their beauty. They were well pressed, retained most of the colour they had had in life, but Chandler’s attention couldn’t focus on them long. 

“I would like to kiss you, Sir.” Kent said, putting the flowers back in the book, and the book back in bag. 

“I think I would like that.”

Kent raised himself up on his tiptoes to place a kiss on Chandler’s cheek, then another slightly lower down, nearly on the line of his jaw. 

“Do you think they are still dancing?” Chandler asked, suddenly, and Kent fell back to his heels, laughing. Chandler felt his cheeks flush, but he carried on, serious, indignant. “In the hall?”

Kent inclined his head towards Whitechapel, listening. “Possibly, it certainly sounds like it.”

Chandler nodded, then held out his hand. “Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

-

Riley nearly fell over when she looked over to see Kent and Chandler join the couples for what would be the final dance of the night, alongside the Miles’, Erica and Mansell and Buchan and Morgan. She watched with her mouth hanging on its hinges as Chandler kissed Kent’s hand without the man giving him so much as a dirty look, instead actually smiling at the gesture, before the violins flared and everyone was bouncing about, twirling and bowing. 

A tray of dirty champagne flutes left forgotten on the side, Riley grabbed the nearest person to her, which turned out to be a smiling Norroy, and pointed. “Emerson Kent has dimples.” Riley knew she must look manic, but she couldn’t help it. “He’s happy and he’s dimpling at the Captain.”

Norroy’s eyes crinkled at the corners, delighted at the situation herself. “It would seem my cousin has found happiness at last.”

-

-x-

-

Chandler was from a family of higher repute than Kent, or of Miles, but as Kent quickly discovered, he could not eat his soup properly. The man tipped his spoon the wrong damned way, for God’s sake. He was a heathen, and Kent didn’t know how he put up with the man in his house. It was a good thing Chandler was beautiful. 

-

Chandler knew he was weak to Kent at most times, but sitting together on their piano stool, the hearthfire the only thing lighting the room on a deep winter’s night, Chandler pressed as close as he could get without disturbing Kent’s playing, he couldn’t help but to kiss Kent’s neck, to whisper that he loved him, to watch the man’s dimples grow, a pleasant blush spread across his cheeks. 

** It was a wonder the saps got anything done. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this sorry excuse for a regency au <3 come shoot me ideas for spinoff chapters on Tumblr!


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